


Blue Skies From Rain - Chapters 25 through 29

by lovesrain44



Series: Blue Skies From Rain [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Incest, Laundry, M/M, Mental Institutions, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, oatmeal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:53:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrain44/pseuds/lovesrain44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Sam rescues Dean from the djinn, Sam and Dean go back to the warehouse to take care of the bodies of both the victims and of the djinn. But instead of what should be a simple clean-up job, Sam and Dean are sucked into a nightmare world brought about by the djinn's last dying act of revenge. (Takes place directly after <em>What Is and What Should Never Be</em>.) What do you do when you wake up in a mental institution and you think your brother is dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Skies From Rain - Chapters 25 through 29

**Chapter 25**

They were standing kitty corner from C&C Towing, located on the south side of Joliet, waiting for it to close. It was a dull yellow building surrounded on three sides by a high wooden fence, and there was a chain-link gate with a padlock. Through the gate, Sam could see that there were a bunch of cars and trucks and pieces of machinery, though he didn't know which car was Dean's. Beyond the roofline of the building, Sam could see the curve of the highway and the cars on the overpass, though the neighborhood where they were was quiet and still. Through the ridge of trees, the sun was getting lower, sending streams of light through the clouds that looked like they might want to rain, but didn't quite have it in them.

Sam still felt astonished that Dean was planning to walk right through the gate to get his car. "Are you sure about this?" Stealing clothes was one thing, but this was another.

"It's not a police station," said Dean, low, as he kept his eyes on the building. "And they probably don't think anyone would dare."

A damp wind picked up and tossed leaves and scraps in the gutter, and pretty soon, a man dressed in mechanic's overalls came out the front door of the building and locked it behind him. Then he got in his truck and drove away.

"Now," said Dean. They walked across the road in a way that seemed overly obvious to Sam, but that Dean assured him only felt that way. To anyone looking, they would appear confident and that they belonged. Dean walked right up to the gate and tested the large round padlock with his fingers. It was rusted a little where the loop of the lock circled through the gate, but it held, clanging loudly as Dean tugged.

Dean made a noise in his throat, like he wasn't surprised, and then he took out a paperclip. It might have been his last one, Sam didn't know, but it was still interesting to watch him unfold it, his tongue sticking out between his teeth as he did this, like if he didn't hold his mouth a certain way, it wouldn't work right. Then he set to messing with the padlock. His movements weren't smooth, but Sam was sure that Dean had done something like this dozens, maybe hundreds of times. Picking locks was part of who Dean was. Like the stealing, it was a part of him. Sam wanted Dean, so he knew he would have to accept the lock picking. Maybe it was a little like falling in love with Robin Hood. But did that make him Maid Marion? Or maybe Will Scarlett. Yes, that worked better.

With a large, hollow click the padlock came undone, and Dean unhooked it, letting it hang on one of the links in the gate.

He turned to Sam, and held out his hand, the tips of his fingers on Sam's stomach.

"I'm going to go in. You close the gate behind me. When I come out with the car, open the gate, swing it closed behind me, and lock it. That way, it'll look like no one's been here."

The subterfuge of normalcy made sense, though it was somewhat unsettling for Sam to realize how _much_ it made sense, how familiar it was. But then, if he'd been with Dean in the past, and Dean had done this sort of thing before, which he obviously had, then Sam must have too.

He nodded his understanding and as he closed the gate he watched through the links as Dean walked through the yard, looking about him, casually, almost as if he were walking through a field, and there was no one watching. Or like he had walked down the corridors of the hospital, owning the space he was in, measuring it for conquest. This made Sam smile. He loved the sauntering swing of Dean's hip, especially in blue jeans; he could watch Dean walk all day.

Dean disappeared around the corner of the building, where the back lot extended beyond view. There was a click and then a metallic thud, and then a low growl. For a moment, Sam thought that it was thunder, rolling and shuddering through the ground into his feet. A faint smell of oil sifted through the damp air.

From around the corner, Sam watched the leading edges of something dark and shiny approach, bits of it glinting, and when it fully turned the corner, Sam's jaw dropped. That was Dean's car? It was a freaking battleship, was what it was. It was wide and long and dense, from the sharp tips all the way back to the taillights. The whole of the front was chrome grillwork, and the sides of it were sleek and black as sin. It came to a stop in front of Sam, just on the other side of the gate, like a beast waiting to be released.

It was _the_ car. Not just any car, but the car he'd seen in his memories from before, black and gleaming and sassy, ready to roll away to the far horizon under its own steam if it had a mind to. He'd ridden hundreds of times in this car. He _knew_ this car, he just never realized it belonged to Dean. He realized his brother must have had a car, too, and taken Sam for rides in it, but what did it look like? He didn't know. This was the only car he could remember.

Through the windshield, Dean made a motion with his hand and Sam realized that he was standing there with his hands just hanging there, gawping, not doing what he was supposed to do. He swung the gate wide, and the car slid through them; Sam was standing close enough that the car brushed his thigh. Then he hurried to close the gate and secure the padlock. The car rumbled deep in its throat as it waited for Sam.

He hurried to the passenger side and looked through the window that Dean was leaning over to roll down.

"C'mon, Sam, let's get out of here."

Sam opened the door, which felt heavy, and slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled a bit dusty, and the windows were streaked and dirty, but that was only because it had been sitting unused the whole time they'd been in the hospital. He shut the door, and locked it. Behind the wheel, Dean was grinning at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way Sam had never seen them.

"This is some car, Dean," said Sam, smiling back. "Man, you told me about it, but I never knew--what kind of car is it?"

Some of the smile fell from Dean's face and he turned to look out the window. "It's an Impala. A 1967 Impala. Our, I mean, my dad gave it to me."

Dean's dad was one thing they'd never really talked about, and maybe that was because Dean looked a little fallen and lost when he mentioned him. Sam reached out his hand and touched the dash, wanting to make it better, even just a little bit.

"Seriously, Dean," he said. "This car. This car is amazing. I can see why you--" Sam stopped wondering if what he wanted to say would make sense. Then he went ahead anyway, Dean always seemed to know what he meant. "It's very cool. I can see why you love it."

This worked, at least mostly. The shine came back into Dean's eyes, and he looked at Sam, a little dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth. He seemed at home as he sat, and a rush of echoes tumbled around the back of Sam's head, but he shook them away. He didn't want memories, he wanted now. Dean behind the wheel, and the curve of his smile as the sun cut through the clouds and lit his face.

"Let's hit the road," said Dean. He pressed down on the gas to gun the engine. "You hungry?"

"Yes," said Sam. "Always. But we don't have any money." He paused to consider this. "Do we?"

Dean just laughed, moved the gear shift on the steering column, and did a careful three-point turn that headed them back down the road that would take them to the highway. "Hang on," he said.

When Dean hit the highway and pushed down on the gas, Sam's head went back with a snap like he was in a rocket ship, When Dean assured him they were only doing the speed limit, Sam shook his head, but he hung on to the door handle and didn't say anything to make Dean slow down. Instead he rolled his window down and let the wind blow because Dean was happy, and that was what mattered. They kept driving as the sun went down, heading west along the highway, the rumble of the car and the whistle of the wind keeping them company as they drove.

When it got dark, Dean pulled off the highway and into a gas station, where he took care of filling up the tank and washed the windows as the numbers on the gas pump rolled over and over. Sam stood by the car, waiting in the glow of the neon lights of the gas station awning, watching this. He didn't want to say anything, but they didn't have money, and there was a very obvious sticker with a picture of the local law, warning about people pumping and driving off without paying. But then, Dean seemed confident, so Sam tried not to worry.

Then Dean clicked off the pump, and shut the fuel tank, and looked at Sam, still smiling, capable and sure. Glowing, and alert, and in charge, like he had been in the hospital. But even more so, now that he was out of there, and had his car. It made the breath catch in Sam's throat, just to watch him, graceful and alive, like he was. Winking at Sam as he took care of his car.

Dean went around to the passenger side and opened it up, then opened up the glove compartment and took out a small cigar box. As Sam watched, he took out a credit card. Sam knew what it was the second he saw it, and realized a second after that that it was an _illegal_ credit card. He tried not to let his face show his dismay but he knew he was frowning. Unsure at the tumble of a memory, of filling out blank forms, knowing full well and good that the cards were stolen, and that they'd never pay for anything that they bought with them.

Dean tipped his head at Sam, and Sam watched him walk into the station, attempting to comfort himself with the idea that nothing they were stealing was bad, that they needed the gas, that Dean had done this before. That there was a reason for it all, even though he couldn't understand any of it.

When Dean came back out with the credit card and the yellow slip in his hand, Sam made himself shrug, like it was neither here nor there with him. As they slid into the car, and shut the doors in tandem, Dean shoved the paper into the glove compartment. His shoulder brushed against Sam's leg as he did this, and as he sat up he gave Sam a pat on the thigh.

"Cheer up," he said. "We're going to use it to buy food next."

As Dean started the engine and steered the car out of the parking lot, Sam's stomach stood up and grumbled. Surely feeding them with stolen money wasn't necessarily a bad thing. And they were very hungry.

Dean drove next to a fast-food place, and they went through the drive-through where Dean ordered two of everything. They were in a hurry, but it didn't matter that Sam didn't get to choose exactly what he wanted. The smell of food in the crackling brown bags made Sam feel he was drooling like a dog, and he laughed at Dean guiding the car with one leg as he arranged a cheeseburger in one hand and his coke between his legs. Then he was able to steer with one hand, taking them under the highway and along a two lane road that headed into the darkness.

Sam didn't know where they were going or why, but he didn't really care. The sun had gone down, and amidst the blackness of the fields and the sky, he was with Dean. Dean hadn't left him, hadn't shrugged him off or gotten irritated, or just left him on the roadside to return to his old life. No, he was taking Sam with him. And as Sam ate his stolen cheeseburger and stolen fries, and took large, throat burning gulps of his stolen soda, he knew he wanted to be with Dean, so he would just have to deal with the rest of it.

*

They drove through the night and along the back roads, and got as far as the edges of Quincy, when Dean knew that his vision was getting too blurry to be safe. He'd been dreaming and planning for this moment for a month, him and Sam and the Impala and the open road.

But now he was so tired he could collapse just by thinking about sleeping. Plus there was no sign of Henriksen or road blocks or anything, so they could stop for a bit.

Dean knew he shouldn't get pissed that this Sam didn't know the Impala was their home, didn't know how far she'd carried them, how loyal. How she was, sometimes, the only thing he could count on. Besides, Sam seemed to like Dean's baby now, instead of turning up his nose, as he sometimes did. No, he'd glowed and cooed over her, petting the dash, full of admiration. It made a nice change, so maybe Dean could let it go that Sam didn't remember her.

"There's a motel," said Sam, pointing. "How are we going to pay for it?"

Dean tried to smile, but only yawned large enough to crack his jaw. He pulled into the parking lot. It was just one of those regular places, could have been any of thousands across the country; mom and pop places that sometimes he felt badly about using a stolen credit card on. But not tonight. He needed a full night's sleep and then in the morning, he would figure out what to do about Sam. Because now, they were out of the hospital, and his excuses were all gone. Once he and Sam were free, that'd been the deal.

He got them a room with two doubles, and figured on using them both, hoping Sam was going to understand that it really had to stop. Here in the real world, they were hunters, and they were brothers. Dean just didn't know how to tell him.

*

Sam watched with wide eyes as Dean used yet another stolen credit card for the clerk at the desk to run through before he gave them the keys to a room. Just how many credit cards did Dean have? Dean hadn't let him look in the box, nor in the trunk when they went to get their gear. Turned out, Sam had a duffle of clothes that Dean said were his.

While he waited for Dean to lock the trunk beneath the lights of the parking lot, he looked at the duffle straps in his hands. They weren't in the least familiar, not even the little ragged edge to one of the handles that looked like it had been worried with a fingernail, over and over.

"C'mon, Sam," said Dean. He swung his duffle over one shoulder as though it weighed nothing, and reached out to pat Sam on the arm. It was more of a slam than a pat, but the contact of Dean's hand made him feel more normal. He was able to follow Dean like this was ordinary, going through the doorway to a strange room, right on Dean's heels.

He watched Dean take over one of the huge beds, and there were two of them, which seemed an amazing piece of wealth. He was startled to find that this was the room in his memory, or one just like it. He remembered thinking about rooms like this one, the set of beds, the odd-colored carpet, him and his brother living in a series of them, like they had no fixed address. Now he thought that maybe this memory was of him and Dean, on one of those mysterious errands for Dean's dad that Dean would never give him the details for.

He let himself get distracted from this by the fact that the room was ridiculously large, and that there were real curtains on the windows and no bars. There was even a door to the bathroom, a real door, and although he realized this was what was normal, more normal than the hospital, it seemed strange that this whole place was just for him and Dean. He put his duffle on the bed and watched Dean make himself at home, taking off his jacket, sitting down to take off his boots, and finally, with his sock feet still on the floor, laying back on the bed, letting out a huge sigh, as though he'd arrived at his final destination and never need move again.

"Dean," said Sam, not sure what he wanted.

"Yeah?" asked Dean. His eyes were closed, but he lifted his chin. "You hungry?"

"Maybe," said Sam, and although he knew what Dean meant, he felt he might want something else. Something you definitely couldn't get at a fast food restaurant.

Dean made a low sound in his throat, like he was trying to concentrate. But he seemed distracted by something else, because the same frown was appearing between his eyebrows that had been showing up while they'd driven, even though Dean had been smiling, loving to drive, it seemed, with the windows down, wind on his skin and his music blaring. Sam had opened up his mouth to ask what kind of music it was and Dean had said something about _shotgun_ and _cake hole_ and then laughed to himself, but Sam didn't care that maybe Dean was slamming him only he didn't know how. He liked watching Dean's mouth when he laughed.

He looked at the bathroom door, and then walked over to switch on the light and look inside. The room was huge and shiny, not at all what he'd been thinking. And then he saw the shower, and the thick towels on the rack, and the pair of little soaps. Cups wrapped in plastic. It was a palace compared to the hospital.

When he turned around, Dean was sitting up on one elbow. "What?"

"It's huge," said Sam. He thought about Dean driving all day, the warmth alternating with the chill as it swirled through the open windows, the dust of the road, the humidity building until now the edges of the sky outside had started to foam with clouds that wanted to rain. Then he knew what he wanted. Remembered what Dean had promised.

"Hey," he said, pointing at the bathroom. "I'll bet these places have all the hot water in the world. You know?"

"Not after you get done with it," said Dean. He looked like he was smiling at some private joke and just about ready to lie back down.

Sam stopped him by walking over to bump his knee against Dean's knee.

"Let's take a shower," he said.

"What?" Dean kept his eyes closed.

"You and me." Sam reached down to pat Dean's thigh. "Shower. I'll bet it's different than a bath, all that water coming down."

"Let me get this straight," said Dean. He sat up now, his elbows on his knees, looking up at Sam. "You bet it's different than a bath, but you don't know?"

Sam shrugged. He took off his jacket and then sat on the other bed and took his boots off like Dean had and then peeled off his socks. Wiggled his toes against the carpet. "It's in my head somewhere," he said. "I don't remember ever taking a shower, but I know it's different. Go figure."

"Huh," was all Dean had to say. The worry frown was back between his eyebrows.

"So let's take one and see."

"Uh, Sam, you go ahead, I don't need--"

Sam stopped him by getting up and moving close. For a second, Dean drew back and then he seemed to remember it was Sam.

"You promised," said Sam. "When we got to the motel, and here we are."

Dean's mouth worked, his eyebrows scrunched together, scowling. He couldn't back out, he wouldn't, Sam knew, but for some reason it was bothering him. "When did I say this?" asked Dean.

"In the barn," said Sam, able to answer promptly. "You didn't want hay everywhere, but here we are and no hay." He spread his hands to demonstrate the complete and total lack of hay.

"I didn't promise a shower," said Dean, his jaw tightening.

For a second, Sam thought that maybe Dean didn't want this at all, him and Sam being together, that Sam was forcing him into it, like he'd forced him before, back at the hospital. And although Dean was willing to do what he said he would do, he might really not want to. If so, the shower would just be too much. The last thing Sam wanted was to make Dean do anything; all he wanted was to be with Dean, however Dean wanted it.

Sam was just about to open his mouth to say _okay_ , to back off, to take a shower by himself, when Dean's mouth worked as he looked up at Sam, something deep in his eyes, a darkness that moved too fast for Sam to figure it out. Then Dean rolled his shoulders back and stood up in one smooth motion, right next to Sam, before Sam had time to blink.

"Okay," Dean said. "Okay, we can--" He stopped for a moment. His hand came up to cup the back of Sam's neck, pulling them close till their foreheads touched. He blinked, lashes fanning out across the fair and freckled skin below his eyes, leaving Sam feeling enchanted, wanting to lick them. So he did. Swept his tongue lightly along the soft skin of Dean's eyelid, and Dean closed his eyes, and let Sam do this, holding still, though his eyelids quivered. Sam's hands came up to tug on the hem of Dean's shirt, and he pulled Dean even closer.

"Okay," said Sam in return. "So let me--" He wanted to say, _let me do everything, let me be everything_ , but Dean was so hesitant, more words like that, all that love stuff, would just send Dean back to the bed, blinking, saying he didn't want this, and _not now, Sam_. Like a girl with a headache, putting a guy off and how did Sam know about that? From TV maybe. He'd seen plenty of commercials on the TV in the Day room back at the hospital.

"Let me help you," he said instead.

When Dean nodded, Sam snuck in a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth, letting his mouth sweep over the soft skin there, feeling Dean smile a little, his jaw relaxing. He pulled off Dean's shirt and tossed it on the bed, and started on the button and the zipper of Dean's pants when Dean batted him away.

"Go--go start the shower or something, yeah?" Dean nudged Sam in the direction of the bathroom, and Sam went, pulling off his shirt as he went. He bent to turn on both knobs, and while the water ran hot, he tested it, and then fiddled with the third knob till it chugged hard and sent the water streaming out of the showerhead with an energy that reminded him why he liked showers so much

Sam stuck his hand in the stream of water, the echo of doing this thing, this very same motion a hundred times before settling into his bones in a comfortable way. His memory was going to come back, and when he was himself again, he would be able to figure out why Dean seemed unhappy, even though this was what they both had worked so hard for. Until then, though, he would touch Dean all over and kiss his skin and make Dean sigh. That would help a little bit.

He went out from the bathroom, undoing his pants. When he looked up, Dean was on the bed, where he'd sat back down to take off his jeans, so Sam went over to help him. He thought he'd look at Dean and see that same, unhappy expression from earlier. But when Sam cast a sideways glance to test, Dean was smiling, soft, eyes starting to spark.

As Sam pulled on Dean's jeans, Dean leaned back on his elbow, eyes half closing, head tipped back. Sam tossed the jeans to one side, turning his head to make sure they at least landed in a chair. When he looked back, Dean had sat up, and was sitting there in his boxers. His skin was bare to the warm stillness of the room, glowing in the low light, the shadows rippling over his muscles as he slid his hand down his own chest, looking down, his lush mouth pouting as he seemed to contemplate the small thatch of hair along his breastbone.

Then, sensing Sam there, Dean looked up. Sweat glittered along his hairline, his eyes sparked green, and his mouth was open and moist, almost smiling at Sam. He was so beautiful, just sitting there, but he didn't seem to even know it.

 

Sam stood up and bent to kiss Dean, on his neck, along his jaw, feeling good in his chest, taking Dean's face in his hands as he kissed. Finally, his lips touched Dean's, soaking in the feel of them, sweet and soft, like a dandelion seed.

"You're beautiful," he said. And when Dean's brow wrinkled, confused, Sam tugged on his arm and pulled him to his feet. "Let me show you."

He stopped at the bathroom door to pull off his jeans and boxers in one motion, holding onto the doorjamb. Dean slipped into the space, and pulled Sam's hand so it was leaning on him, and pulled off his own boxers, keeping his eyes on Sam's. Not looking away, or tightening his mouth when Sam swept his eyes along Dean's length, taking in the line of tan along Dean's neck and arms, in contrast with the paleness of the rest of him, where his cock curved out from the dark hair between his legs. Length of muscle and curve of bone, he let Sam look. He was there, with Sam, while the steam roiled hot in the room, sending the curtain shifting on plastic rings, sending the fog up the mirror till it was as glazed as the mirror in the hospital was. This was familiar, though the room was warmer, much warmer than it had been there. He tugged Dean to him, their bodies growing damp in the steam, hip to hip, his own cock getting hard against Dean's thigh.

Dean shifted, and when he did, Sam realized that Dean's cock was hard too, heavy, branding hot on Sam's skin. Sam pushed into it. Dipped his head down for a kiss while the water ran into the drain.

"Will we run out of water?" he asked, mouth on Dean.

"No," said Dean. "Endless supply."

Dean knew, of course he did. He'd stayed in these places with Sam, but he remembered even if Sam's memory was imperfect, so Sam trusted him. Still, the sound of water rushing past his ears was a pleasant thunder and he wanted in it, wanted to be skin to skin, wet all over, with Dean. He got into the shower, feeling the hot water pummeling him with tiny dots, bracing his feet against the slippery bottom of the tub. Dean was right behind him, moving, seeming eager as if this had been his idea. Turning his head under the spray, showing Sam how it was done, the water sluicing over his head, soaking his hair dark, his eyes closing.

Then Dean's whole body stilled. He moved his head slightly out of the stream of water, opening one eye to look at Sam.

"You gonna stare?" he asked. "Or you gonna join me?"

This was familiar, this teasing, the little smirk at the corner of Dean's mouth. His hands came up to brush at his own chest till Sam pushed them away so that his hands could do that. He stepped closer, bending his neck to taste Dean's skin with the water rushing over it, swallowing, pushing his chest into Dean's, his hands settling along Dean's ribs. Sighing, opening his mouth to take in more. His eyes closed as the water ran over his head, smoothing his hair to his skin, along his temples, where Dean reached up, touching him there, pushing the hair back like Dean liked to do.

"Soap?" asked Dean, muffled by the water.

Sam had almost forgotten that, just as he knew he'd almost forgotten his panic early on about even touching the soap. Now he let go of Dean to lean out beyond the shower curtain, fingers reaching for the little bar, grabbing a washcloth from the counter, his fingers ripping off the paper that quickly grew soggy, and he let it fall to the floor because who cared about that.

"They have shampoo, too," said Dean. "The little bottles?"

Sam put the soap down on the small ledge, and reached again for the golden bottles on the counter by the sink. He opened one, it smelled sweet, and he poured some in his hands and put the bottle down on the edge of the tub. The shampoo was running off his hands, but there was enough to reach up with both of them to wash it into Dean's hair, pushing the lather in with his fingers, loving the smell of it, mixing with Dean, inhaling it, smiling as Dean closed his eyes, and tilted into Sam's hands. Yeah, showers were the best. Baths were good, but this, where he could be with Dean, skin bare, running with water, was better.

He scrubbed Dean's hair, letting his hands linger over the curve of Dean's scalp. Then he moved Dean's head under the water to rinse him off, and then, to his surprise, Dean poured some shampoo on his hands and gestured to Sam.

Oh. He hadn't realized it might go the other way. It could, of course it could, but--

"This shower is for you," Sam said, coming close so Dean could hear him over the roar of the water.

"The shower is for us," said Dean. He nodded his head, firm, and gestured with his chin for Sam to settle the heck down. Then he ran his fingers through Sam's wet hair, moving his fingertips against Sam's scalp, firm, over and over, running through Sam's hair until Sam felt himself moaning with it. The soap in the hospital had been like sandpaper, smelling like floor wax in comparison to the perfumed air that drifted through the water, settling on their skins like kisses.

Dean rinsed Sam's hair and then poured conditioner into his hands, mixing it in to Sam's hair, so Sam did the same to Dean, liking the feel of how silky Dean's hair became. Then Dean grabbed up the soap, and, taking a washcloth, washed Sam all over, scrubbing hard along his legs, gentle along the inside of his thighs, teasing.

It was supposed to be for Dean, all of this, so Sam struggled the washcloth and the soap away, and returned the favor, scrubbing all over. He hunkered down on his heels at one point to get to Dean's legs, letting his tongue reach out to touch the clean, warm tip of Dean's cock, just for a second, to taste and to tease. Then they rinsed off, and Sam clasped Dean close to his chest, enjoying the thunder of Dean's heart through his skin, against his ribs, the conditioner sweeping down the back of his neck.

Dean ran his hand through Sam's hair, as if to check, and then his own, letting the water rinse them off. Then he said, "Okay, out." Like they were, for a minute, back in the hospital and the lights were soon to go out. Sam turned off the water, and they got out to get dry.

The towels were a nice surprise, thick against Sam's skin as Dean rubbed him down. They both dripped on the tiled floor but there were enough towels so that Dean threw one down for them to stand on while they dried off. It seemed an incredible luxury, a towel just for that, but then, there were lots of towels. He took a whole towel just for Dean's hair, rubbing gently, taking his time, tucking behind Dean's ears to make sure he was dry everywhere, rubbing Dean's chest and legs, planting kisses wherever he went, until Dean gave a small laugh and pulled Sam to make him stand straight.

He was serious and still for a minute, looking at Sam as the steam died away, sucked away by some fan Sam could hear whirring. Dean's eyes were green, sending sparks, warm lights that Sam knew were real, Dean wasn't making himself do this, not any of it.

"This is for us," said Dean, dipping his head, looking up at Sam through his lashes, saying it slow as if he wanted to make sure Sam was listening. "You and me, tonight. Okay?"

Sam felt his heart pound and something twist its way into his soul; there were words of love and then there was this, this moment, which he wouldn't trade for anything in the world. Dean deserved to feel this way, the way Sam felt right now; Sam would make sure that he did.

He dragged them out of the bathroom and went to one of the beds to pull back the scratchy counterpane, revealing clean white sheets, and two pillows. An abundance of pillows, since the other bed had two as well, an embarrassment of riches. When Dean looked at him as if to ask him what was wrong, Sam gestured at the pillows. _See?_ Dean nodded. Yes, he saw.

"Cool, huh?" Dean asked. Smiling.

"C'mon," Sam said, coaxing, as if Dean had been resisting him this whole time. "Now, you."

"What?" asked Dean.

"Down. On the bed."

"Bossy," said Dean, but he sat down, and pulled Sam between his bare legs, close enough to rest his face on Sam's stomach as he stood there, like he was soaking up the heat and the feel of Sam. He took one hand and brushed it slowly down the length of Sam's hip.

But Sam wanted to take care of Dean, not the other way around, it was always the other way around. Dean seemed to think it was his job or something, taking care of Sam, making sure Sam's needs were met, always, before his own. Well that was going to have to stop. It wasn't fair, and it made Sam feel like that's all he meant to Dean. He wanted to mean more. Starting now.

He pushed and made Dean move back on the bed and then settled down, lying on top of Dean, their skins still slightly damp and warm where their bodies touched. He planted his elbows on the side of Dean's head, legs tangled with Dean's. In the back of his head, he considered that he might be too heavy for this, for long, but Dean seemed to like it, his eyes closed halfway, hands coming up to touch Sam's hips, gentle, waiting.

"Do I have your permission?" asked Sam.

Dean's fingers pressed down, muscle into bone, and Dean tipped back his chin, eyes closing, nodding, letting Sam have it. _This is for us_ , Dean'd said, so this would be for Dean. He kissed Dean's neck, pulling Dean's head up with his hands, so Dean wouldn't have to do even that much. Felt Dean shiver beneath his mouth, opening to suck at the skin, and use his teeth to nip, feeling the fierce desire to mark Dean as his, his, his Dean. Then he realized that Dean was turning his head back, mouth open, like he wanted Sam, twisting into his arms, and Sam moved so they could kiss. So he could taste Dean, and pull at his hair a little, tip Dean's mouth into his own. Felt Dean's cock hardening against his hip. Knew what he wanted.

"Do we have lotion?" Sam asked, testing the warmth of Dean's lips with his own.

"Uh--no." Dean's eyelashes fluttered open, and he was right there, looking at Sam. "I don't know. Just use--don't worry about the lotion. Just do it. Use spit."

Sam felt his eyebrows go up, and thought for a second how that would work. Dean had been tight last time, snug and close around Sam's cock. It would take a lot of spit, Sam's fingers in him, working him open, and his stomach plunged, groin tightening at the thought of it.

Dean was warm beneath him, shifting under Sam's weight, but Sam held him there, knowing what Dean was going to do, his intent to roll and face the pillow. But he wanted Dean like this, watching through half-lidded eyes that glittered green, and that lush mouth, pink and moist from Sam's kisses. He took his fingers from around Dean's head and brushed them against Dean's mouth, testing the soft skin, ash rose beneath the hard white tips of Sam's fingernails, scraping a little with the edges. Dean opened his mouth, sucking Sam's fingers in, three of them all at once, surprising Sam, making him jerk in a breath, his cock twitching in sympathy.

He made a sound in his chest, and Dean smiled around his fingers, crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Mouth sucking, his tongue curling around the tips of Sam's fingers, his eyes glinting as if to say, _it's like that, huh_? It was like Dean, this little joke, being there, being with Sam, though Sam knew, somewhere still, that Dean was doing this for him, mostly, taking what pleasure he could, and hopefully he could do that, but it was for Sam that Dean did this. As always. That was a kind of love too, selfless, and it made Sam's chest feel like it was bursting. There was never enough he could do in return, but take it, as Dean seemed to want him to. To accept it, because in doing that, that would be love for Dean.

So Sam pushed and took, and moved his fingers a little rough in Dean's mouth, pressing down with his chest, taking kisses from Dean's skin. Along his jaw, biting, sucking in, leaving marks, making Dean a little breathless, shifting under Sam, but trapped, not getting away.

Sam took his fingers out of Dean's mouth and kissed Dean hard, tasting the salt of his own skin. He moved his hand down along Dean's body, trailing the moisture, knowing it would dry and cool across Dean's skin and make Dean shiver. He pulled Dean to him and moved his hand behind Dean, to shove his hand between Dean's legs, to press his fingers between Dean's buttocks, and all the while, leaving cooling marks. He threw his leg over Dean's thigh, trapping him there, and yes, Dean liked that, sighing, eyes closing. He liked being secure in Sam's arms, and Sam could give him this.

He was going to press his fingers in, and knew that because spit had already dried, it might be a little rough. So he looked at Dean and asked, and Dean answered, a flickering of lashes, his mouth open, eyes wide and on Sam, like Sam was the only thing in his world, the only thing he could see, and anything Sam wanted, Dean would give him. It should be the other way sometimes, Sam knew that. So he bent low and planted the softest of kisses, there on the corner of Dean's mouth, making Dean smile again.

"You sure?" he asked.

Dean's mouth moved as if to say _yeah_ , but he didn't make a sound, just that wordless giving that worked its way into Sam's gut, piercing, twisting in there so tight, Sam knew it would never come undone. Dean was his, to love and to take. This would hurt a little, but Dean seemed to be aware of that, to want it, so Sam could only bow his head in return and silently promise to go slow, to be careful, sweeping his lips along the curve of Dean's jaw, feeling the muscles tighten and then relax, and Dean's whole body felt safe in Sam's arms.

Dean took a breath. "Sam," he said. "Sam-I-Am."

Then it felt better, felt right, to tug on Dean's shoulder, and push him face down into the pillow, moving his arms up to curve around his head. Sam pulled the blankets away, swept his hand down Dean's side, beneath his hip, to make sure there weren't any ridges in the sheets, nothing to make Dean uncomfortable. He climbed up behind Dean, stroking his hands through Dean's hair, moving down his neck, sweeping down Dean's back as he settled himself between Dean's thighs. He bent close with more kisses, making moist marks along Dean's spine, heat rising up from Dean, sinking into his bones.

His fingers were completely dry now, so he sucked them into his own mouth, and shifted back, intent on this till Dean turned his head to look back, eyes glinting like two sparks in the night, small green fires to draw him in.

"Okay, you," Sam said. He slipped his damp fingers into Dean's mouth, letting him suck on them, make them wet all up and down, till Dean's neck was hot beneath Sam's hand. He pulled his fingers free and shifted them, moving fast, back between Dean's buttocks, circling Dean's asshole with them, leaving circles of wet, and then he pushed in, curving his finger so he didn't rip at Dean with his nail, but pushing it in with a little force, so that Dean would know it was there.

Dean made a sound, a soft surprised noise from his throat, but as Sam moved his finger, he sighed and moved his forehead against the pillow, settling into it. The back of his neck was starting to sparkle with sweat in the bright overhead lights, and Sam wished he'd thought to turn the lights off, but it was good like this. In the hospital, he'd never been able to watch, and now he could, so maybe leaving the lights on was a good thing, if he could see Dean beneath him, lashes against his cheek, mouth slightly open. Trusting. Waiting for Sam.

Sam drew his finger out and then pushed two back in, moving his fingers apart and then together, using his other hand to make circles on Dean's back, his palm along Dean's rib, his skin, feeling the sweat start to build, keeping Dean still as he moved his fingers in and out, side to side, pushing, always pushing. Making it a little hard, watching Dean squirm as he listened to the small, almost high sounds Dean was making as he pushed his hips back into Sam's hand. Sam pulled out and then pushed in three fingers, and Dean made the same sound he had in the hospital, a little yip that made Sam want to stop. But Dean was shivering beneath him and grinding his hips into the mattress, thighs strong alongside Sam's knees. Dean could push Sam off if he wanted to, but he wasn't, because he didn't. He wanted Sam, right where he was, doing what he was.

Sam curved in to kiss Dean again, to lick the sweat from the back of his neck, the salt from the top of Dean's spine, tender in Sam's mouth, sweet in his brain, Dean like this, laid out like this, pushing back into Sam's hand because he wanted it, really wanted it now. That was better, like this, Sam kissed and moved his fingers, till he heard Dean grunting, as though he were protesting, wanting Sam to _hurry, now_ , _to go there_ , _to do it_. Sam pulled out his fingers all at once, thinking that might cause friction, a burn, but Dean moaned into the pillow and Sam petted the back of his head, Dean's hair silky and damp beneath his palm. Yes.

Laying full out, he tipped his weight to one side along Dean, knowing he was heavy but not moving away. Instead he grabbed his cock and snubbed the head up close between Dean's legs, pushing with his knees, till he pushed inside, just a little, Dean's heat, the heat from inside his body soaking into Sam's cock, making it want to pulse now. Sam tightened his groin, and thought distant thoughts of cool water, making his body obey him, not now, not yet.

He pushed, pushing with his cock and his knees behind, pushing, feeling the resistance of Dean's body, waiting, letting his blood pound behind his eyes, breath humming in his throat as a drop of sweat from his forehead slid into his eyes, making it sting. He closed his eyes, and felt the pounding now, in the darkness, Dean's body hot around him as he nudged in, and then a bit more, pushing, keeping on pushing, Dean's body rising to push back, the only way he knew Dean wanted it like this, for Sam to keep doing it, with only spit and heat to ease the way. Dean was tight, nudge by nudge, Sam's cock felt huge inside of Dean, like an iron brand, marking Dean from the inside as his, just his and no one else's. He opened his eyes. Saw Dean's back, the long line of spine, the curve of ribs as Dean breathed hard, the length of him, sweat and muscle.

With a final grunt, his thighs shaking, Sam knew he was full in, his pubic hair pushing up behind Dean's balls, and he took his hands away from Dean's body to brace his weight so he could move his hips, drawing back to thrust into Dean, hard, the slam making the bed frame jerk against the wall with a click. Making Dean's shoulders roll back, his arms reaching out to grip the sheets, hair dark with sweat now, shuddering all up and down his length. Good, that was good.

Dean pressed his cheek into the pillow, his head tipped to one side, so that Sam could see that Dean's eyes were closed, almost as though he were lost. Lost to be found, but only by Sam, Sam who loved him, moving now, thrusting in with his thighs, drawing out to push in again, in rhythm, tandem with Dean as he pushed back, coming up on his knees so Sam could grip his hips and hold on, feeling the piston impulse of his thighs as they took over, sweat streaking his skin, shining on Dean's back.

Sam held on as he ground into Dean, pumping with short, hard jerks, and then something snapped in his head, taking him to a place filled with blackness and then sparks, showering down, coming up through his spine and into his brain, and he pushed, hard, hard, _hard_ , fingers gripping so tightly, shoving and pulling, he knew Dean would feel the bruises for days. Felt the final thrust as his cock pulsed, hot, thumping inside of Dean, while Dean sank back against him, grunting low, his arms stretched out, fingers tight inside of sheets that were now pulled free from the mattress.

Still hot beneath him, Dean shook, and Sam reached around the front of Dean's body to find that Dean's cock was hard and tight up against his stomach and he frowned. Thinking that Dean seemed prepared to go on, letting Sam have his pleasure without taking something for himself. It made him mad, a sizzle in his brain, tired of that, not wanting it for Dean, and why on earth did Dean think that Sam would _let_ him? He pulled out fast enough to hurt, letting his anger take him, so he could give Dean what he wanted, needed, even though he wasn't going to ask. Not for anything, but didn't he know Sam would give him the world?

Dean's mouth fell open, shock widening his eyes as Sam flung him back on the bed. His head hit the pillow and slipped off it, at an angle, his shoulders tangled in the sheets. Sam wrapped his arm behind Dean, cupped around Dean's ribs, trapping Dean's arm against his own side. He threw his leg over Dean's body, making Dean struggle against him, his mouth trying to work in protest, but his mouth was dry. Sam kissed him, making his mouth wet, marking Dean's lips with a nip. Dean threw up his chin, pulling away, and Sam let him.

"Mine," Sam said. Growling. But his other hand was soft, stroking down along Dean's belly that quivered under his touch. He didn't play around, but circled his fingers around Dean's cock, pulling up, the sweat of Dean's skin almost enough but not enough, making it a little rough again. He liked the feel of the hairs on Dean's thighs, scratchy against his own, hot sweat sparking all over between them where their skin touched, the pulse of Dean's heart against his chest. And Dean's face, close enough to kiss, to see Dean's eyes, dark pupils expanding, and yeah, all Dean had to do was say it, say _no_ , and Sam would stop. But though Dean's throat worked, it was for air and not to protest, so Sam did what he wanted to do.

He let go of Dean's shoulders and moved down Dean's body, planting kisses to make Dean stay still. He shifted so he was between Dean's thighs, making Dean spread his legs for Sam's knees. With one hand he stroked Dean's cock up and down, and with his fingers, still damp, he moved them into Dean, all at once, reaching for that spot, a little bump that he rubbed, touching it, moving back, pushing and pulling, his three fingers slick with his own come.

And then he leaned up to take Dean's cock in his mouth, his fist curled around the base, holding it there where he wanted it, spit trailing down, wet, making Dean wet, Dean's taste soaking his mouth. Tasting new, tasting like an echo, Dean's smell, strong in his mouth as he sucked and moved his hand in and out of Dean. Making Dean writhe now, not moving away, but moving, ceaseless, toward the friction of Sam's mouth and his hand, high sounds punctuating each breath, eyes closed tight, eyelashes fanning on flushed cheeks, dappled with sweat all over. And then Sam went fast, his hand moving in and out of Dean, his mouth sucking hard. Dean's whole body twitched and the heat from his cock streamed into Sam's mouth, impossibly hot, while Sam let it move over his tongue, swallowing because now Dean was inside of him now. A part of him.

He waited till Dean was still before he let Dean's cock slip out of his mouth, pulling his fingers out of Dean's body, gently now, slowly. Carefully. He crawled up along Dean's body, the light of the hotel room bare and obvious all around them and if there was a way he could have turned out the lights with his mind, he would have. But he pulled Dean into his arms anyway, in spite of the fact that they were both breathing hard, and hot, it was almost too hot where their chests and legs touching in one long line.

Dean rested his head on Sam's shoulder, his hair bristly and wet, poking into Sam's skin. But Sam wanted it like that. He petted Dean's shoulders and his chest, waiting till the heaving breaths slowed down, and the sweat started to cool. Then he pulled up a sheet, reaching with one hand to do this, and covered them both. Felt Dean sigh against him, and sighed in return. And stifled the impulse that wanted to fill Dean's ears with words pulsing up from Sam's heart, words of _love_ and _forever_ and _Dean_.

Dean reached up to stroke his face, like he knew. And that would have to be enough for Sam.

*

Dean stood there, naked, watching Sam sleep. His cock and the flesh between Dean's legs ached when he walked. His ass ached when he sat down, or moved, or even thought about moving. His body was going to remember Sam for a long, long time, and even after the feeling faded, warm and achy and constant, Dean knew his heart would remember the feeling Sam's touch had left on his soul forever.

There weren't any words for it, not really. Dean had never needed any before, but he wished he had some now so he could mark that moment, Sam's hands on his back, Sam moving inside of him, laying kisses along Dean's spine, leaving his mark. Leaving a feeling like whispered prayers of worship, trailing into Dean's soul, a feeling he couldn't even begin to express. The feeling of being loved. That word that Sam used, liked to use, flinging it all over the place like it cost him nothing, but that to Dean was worth more than he could ever count, a feeling of being adored and treasured and held there in Sam's arms, so safe that the darkness could never get him. Not ever.

To let that go was going to kill him. But better to die than have Sam come to his senses and realize what was going on and push Dean from him, hate in his eyes, flaring with disgust because Dean couldn't stop what he should never have started. That he knew he could never stop. Didn't want to. And so he had to go.

He rubbed his head as he sat on the other bed and watched Sam sleep, the light from the bathroom falling on Sam's hand and his shoulder. But not on his face; Dean had moved the door so the light wouldn't keep Sam awake. He'd told Sam he was taking a shower, and he had, and Sam had fallen asleep, waiting.

Everything seemed normal, Sam's snuffle as he turned over to sprawl, his face buried in the pillow, dark hair spilling across his temples, everything just like a thousand times before, in Dean's memory, even if not in Sam's. There were low tick tick sounds coming from the air conditioner as it came to life and oozed cool air into the room. The roar of the highway passing outside the window. Some faraway pipes clacking.

But it wasn't normal.

 ___We were brothers and I fell in love with you--_

It was something he'd said to only a handful of women in his life time.

_\--in love with your skin and the feel of your breath against my neck and the constant source of you there. Always there._

He knew he could have found another way to convince Sam to trust him enough to come with him. But at the time, in that place, with the walls and the pills and the orderlies, all the constraints, he'd not been able to just say _trust me, come with me_. Instead he'd felt he had to touch Sam all over, to make a place for Sam, to keep that Sam who didn't know him at his side. He remembered thinking it, _this is the only way_. But now, out of the institution, on the road again, with Sam, he couldn't find his way back to that moment when he'd made that choice. For surely he'd made it, and not Sam; Sam hadn't been in his right mind; it had been Dean's choice, only.

It was nothing Sam would ever have done, not any of it. The day would come and Sam would remember. And when he did, and he would, he would do what he'd done before, and leave Dean standing by the roadside, alone. Alone by the Impala with both doors open, with Sam striding off down some highway, destination unknown. Leaving Dean. Sam would walk, and Dean would be all alone. Forever.

And it wasn't that Sam would tell anyone, it was likely that he would not. But he would never let Dean contact him again, never reach out to brush away a stray eyelash, never burrow under Dean's chin, pressing close for warmth or just because he could.

Dean had to leave, because if he stayed, he'd never be able to say no to Sam. His excuse of Sam needing it was long gone and it would be obvious what Dean was really doing, what he really wanted. How he felt. If he left now, before that happened, then maybe Sam might some day understand only that he'd done the best he could. But if he stayed, then Sam would find out everything.

He didn't know what hurt worst, the ache in his heart at hurting Sam, or the dread in his stomach of losing Sam. He clenched his jaw so hard he heard something crack, and as he tried to take a breath, he missed Sam so bad, even with Sam right there in the bed, peacefully asleep. Oh, he'd missed Sam before, when he'd gone off to Stanford, or marched off in Indiana, or even when they'd fought, and Sam didn't talk to him for a whole day. That wasn't this. This empty hole, a great big nothingness coming up to swallow him. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed by a fist

Something hot slid down his face, past his nose, onto his knees, and he sat scrubbing his face, feet curling and uncurling against the greasy carpet.

He stared at Sam, at the length of his body in the half-darkness, trusting and asleep, the room cloaked against the outside by heavy curtains and the hum of the air conditioner. He choked back a hard breath and then his back curved itself forward till his head was resting on his knees, tears hot against his bare skin. He could almost hear Dr. Logan saying it was okay to feel sad, but his face felt like it was being seared by acid and his insides were eating their way out through his chest. Nothing was supposed to feel like this, nothing.

With his arms curved around his head, he listened to Sam breathe, and tried to stop crying. He straightened up, wiping his face with the back of his hand, ignoring the shake of his fingers, the emptiness of his chest.

He knew what he had to do. For this one night, he would stay, and lay with Sam. He would listen to Sam sleeping, and before the sun came up, he would pack and he would go. He would pack and go and leave Sam before Sam found out. And then when Sam did, and he would, Dean would be long gone, and any conversations or recriminations would be meaningless and unnecessary. Sam couldn't hate him if he wasn't there to hate.

Dean got up to turn out the light, and crawled in under the sheet, next to Sam. After so many nights in a too-narrow bed with not enough blanket and the overly chilly air wafting from some unseen vent, it was heaven. Just a little piece before the blank, hellish emptiness that awaited him.

He pushed his head back into the pillow, trying not to feel it. He pulled the covers up to his chin. Sam shifted and made a sound, and had they been back in the hospital, Dean could have reached out and pulled Sam close and felt the contact ease the tension in Sam's body. In his own. It had been good that way, having that, Sam's head tucked in, Sam's hair leaving a scent trace across Dean's face.

The force in his throat grew thick, and he reached out a hand to wipe across his face. He was going to do this, it had to be done. In the morning, before the sun came up, and way too late for Sam to do anything about it.

 

**Chapter 26**

When Sam woke up, he felt comfortable, stretched out on a bed that was almost long enough, a dim light coming through the window, light so muted that for a second he thought he was still in the hospital, still in the narrow room with the bathroom with no door. He opened his eyes, wiping the sleep from them with a fist. No, this place had a bathroom door, half closed, as it had been last night, the light on because Sam hadn't been able to fall asleep in the relative darkness. He'd gotten used to the gleam of light from somewhere, and so Dean, typically, had fixed it for him so he could sleep.

He half sat up in the bed, resting back on his elbows, blinking as he looked around the room. The air still smelled stale, the carpet was still worn, and though the other bed looked rumpled, it hadn't been slept in, because, of course, Dean had slept with him. And yet there was no Dean. For a second, Sam thought that Dean was in the bathroom, shaving or brushing his teeth, but as he listened, he realized that the only person in the room was him.

Maybe Dean had gone out for coffee or something. It seemed like the kind of thing he would do.

Sam sat all the way up and swung the blankets out of the way as he settled his feet to the floor. It was odd to have carpet instead of slick linoleum, and to wake up without the chime, but it was nice too, nice but strange. And to be alone, all alone for the first time that he could remember. He got up to poke a finger through the blinds, which showed him the parking lot, and the fact that the car, Dean's shiny black car, and the car of Sam's memories, was still parked right in front of their door. Which meant that wherever Dean had gone, he'd walked. Which meant that he would probably be back soon.

With a wide, spine-cracking stretch, Sam scratched his ribs and thought about a shower, thought about showering with Dean, thought about pancakes and oatmeal thinned with milk and wondered when Dean would get back so they could go eat. Even if it was with stolen credit cards.

Then on the table by the curtained window, he spotted a piece of paper where he was pretty sure a piece of paper hadn't been the night before. It was folded and set at an angle, white against the dull, fake wood of the table. Sam reached for it, realizing it would tell him where Dean had gone. He smiled as he thought of Dean sitting there before Sam had gotten up, quietly taking a piece of paper and a pen and writing out a private message meant only for Sam.

Just before he opened it, his eyes scanned the room, still listening for Dean. Then he read the note.

_Dear Sam,_

_I had to go._

_Dean_

On the back of the paper was more writing.

 _Call Bobby,_ it read. _He knows you_. And then a phone number.

His heart landed in his stomach with a thud. Something hollow settled in his stomach and as he looked around the room, he realized that things were missing. Not many, but they were all Dean's things. One of the backpacks, the pearl-handled gun Dean had showed him last night. Dean's jacket. _Dean_.

Sam looked at the note and read it again, thinking if he went a little slower this time, the words would tell him when and where and why. But the words remained the same, twelve words, all of them saying goodbye.

It was so typical of Dean to be this cryptic as to why, though not really his style to slink off in the night.

A wave of cold air washed over Sam, and then a hot one, then the cold, till Sam was shivering as hard as he ever had back in the hospital, or in the rain walking across the backcountry of Illinois. Or when he'd stood outside the warehouse on the edges of Joliet, arguing with Dean about what to do with the remains of the djinn's victims. Everything, every word, every gesture, every thought from the past weeks came careening toward him from some far off horizon where it'd been waiting without any patience whatsoever, and slammed into his memories of his whole life with the force of a juggernaut so hard that his teeth clicked together and he staggered, the note slipping from his fingers as it fluttered to the floor.

Sam moved away from the note, the table, the spot where Dean's backpack had been the night before. And sank down on the bed, his knees giving way, the sweat all over him going cold. It was then he noticed that the keys to the Impala were on the nightstand, tucked by the phone.

They'd been placed where Sam wouldn't be able to miss them when he did the room check. Which would happen when they checked out, like it always did. Counterclockwise one time, and then clockwise the next, while the other brother got the car or turned in the key or whatever. A pattern established when they were kids, long before Dad started leaving them on their own, and long after that act had ceased to be unusual.

Dean had left him.

The muted feeling of the hospital snapped away, leaving Sam shaking, looking at the keys, remembering the hospital, not like some faraway dream that he was glad to be out of, but like the hard, brittle reality that it was. The Sam he'd been there, the Sam he'd been even just last night, danced in front of him like a glassy, thin pantomime. It was startling enough to realize how accepting he'd been of the hospital, their attitudes towards him, the stigma of amnesia, and their old fashioned approach to keeping a patient calm.

He had believed that they would get him well, only now it made him sick to think of being that trusting, that wide-eyed and believing, wanting to stay and not go with that guy named Dean because he needed to get well. But the worst part of it--the worst thing of all--had been Dean. And him, looking for whatever Dean was handing out with all the finesse of a rabbity scared fifteen year old. _Will you hold me, Dean? I'm scared, Dean. Why is Randy mean to me? Where are we going, Dean? Can I kiss you? Will you touch me? Yes, touch me like that--_

With a low moan, he was on his feet, a sudden headache blazing behind his eyes, not sure if he wanted to throw up or scream or--

It was like getting hit in the face, over and over, solid, slamming punches, pushing everything up in his brain, slamming with the force of concrete slabs, till his head was thick with it. All of his memories came back, old and new. Solid with the images of Dean, his eyes glinting in the slanted light of their room, his hands on Sam's hips, curving through Sam's hair, biting his lip as though considering his options as he looked at Sam, wanted him. Bent down, pulled their bodies close.

Dean had kissed him, and held him, and petted him, and let Sam fuck him, and lied to him--

Sam went to the door and flung it open, letting in the light and the air, staring at the parking lot as if he half expected Dean to come striding across it, with a cardboard tray of coffee in one hand and a bag of donuts in the other. Like he had a million times, whistling, smiling, his eyes lighting up as he saw Sam. But there was no Dean. Only the blacktop, starting to smell like tar as the sun hit it and the dew of the morning was seared away.

 _My Sam_ , Dean had called him. He had whispered it in Sam's ear, tucked in close, lips brushing Sam's skin soft enough to feel like silk, warm enough to be tender. _My Sam. My Sammy. Sam-I-Am_. Looking at him with eyes that had seemed too green to be real, and whether that was the meds or the contrast of them to the hospital walls, Sam didn't know. But Dean had always been watching him and reaching out for him. And when Sam had wanted Dean, Dean had wanted him right back.

Sam slammed the door shut hard enough to make the walls shudder. He didn't want to throw up now. He wanted to kill something. Preferably Dean.

He looked at the bed, at the creases in the sheets, and the slashes of stains from last night. He'd pulled Dean to him, he recalled now, excited about the prospect of so much hot water and privacy, and he'd made Dean take off his clothes, and then they'd showered. And then they'd tumbled to the bed, limbs hot, and he remembered his mouth being open, tasting Dean with his tongue, pressing his fingers into Dean's shoulder blades to pull Dean close. Dean who had been strangely still, like it was some trick to make Sam want him even harder and it had worked.

His knees couldn't hold him. Sam sat back on the bed, scrubbing his face with his hands, thinking if he could just get hold of the whirling circle in his stomach, he could grab it and kill it and he wouldn't feel like this anymore. The memory of that Sam and that Dean--but they were still the same Dean, his brother Dean. Dean had said that his memory had come almost all the way back early on. So he'd always know, really, who he was, and who Sam was. When Sam had asked why Dean didn't leave, Dean had said that he was sticking around to take care of Sam, like Dr. Logan wanted. In Dr. Logan's experiment of selfless care and altruistic behavior and letting Dean have all day all night access to the little brother he should not have been touching. Because Dean had lied. All along.

Sam collapsed back on the pillow, pulling his legs up off the ground, feeling numb and then more numb till even the whirling in his stomach went away. His eyes were open and he stared at the ceiling and counted the splotches. It was easier to do that than to think of Dean's mouth on his, or Dean's hand between his legs, or the twitch of Dean's cock when Sam would blow warm air across it, his eyes flicking up to catch Dean's. To make sure that that was what Dean wanted. Turned out what Dean had wanted was him.

Spit built up in his mouth. Yeah. He thought he might be able to throw up now. Lumbering to his feet, he barely made it to the toilet in time. But at least it was something, he was doing something. Not just lying there with thoughts of Dean in his head.

*

Dean drew a line in his mind as to which way he was going; it was diagonal, southwest across the state of Missouri. Through Columbia, and then Jefferson City, where the 18-wheeler he climbed up into took him, covering the miles in about half a day. Then it let him off, the trucker grunting at him and Dean grunted back. No hard luck stories exchanged, no emo conversations, just a lift to somewhere else and a _thanks very much, mister_. And that was okay.

But being on the road without the Impala was like walking on two broken legs. Only he was too doped up to feel the pain, hitching, walking backwards with his thumb stuck out. Headed west, always heading west. Always checking over his shoulder for Sam. He might want Sam to find him, but then he knew that would be a bad idea. Sam was better off without him.

He wanted to be miles away when Sam remembered, but his heart hurt, missing Sam, feeling like he was being pierced with spikes, something tearing him up inside, each breath shot through with a hard sear, his hands numb, his gut tumbling with rocks. So bad, it was so bad, missing Sam.

But he kept walking down highway 50 towards the sunset, feeling the strain in his thighs from walking in heavy boots, that itchy unsettled feeling that he should be moving faster than he was. He had fifty bucks in his wallet and that was it. He'd left the rest in Sam's wallet, and all the credit cars in the cigar box. The cell phone too. If, when, Sam got his memory back, he'd be able to trace Dean with those things, and Dean didn't want that. He wanted to be long gone and for Sam to leave him that way.

It wasn't going to rain, but it looked like it wanted to, and Dean knew he needed to get something to eat, to get some shelter for the night. Or maybe he should just not eat and keep walking, even in the rain. Shivering and miserable, into the night, without anything to guide him. It certainly wouldn't be anything he didn't deserve.

*

Sam's thoughts of Dean would not leave him. He tried sleeping, tried counting spots on the ceiling. He took three showers that he could remember, and still there was Dean, right behind his eyes when he closed them and when he opened them, everywhere in the room that he looked. In the bathroom, by the table, bending to put his backpack on the floor, and in the bed. Especially in the bed, his body a long shadow on the sheets, beautiful, eyes glinting, watching Sam.

He tried to leave the room several times, opening it up to stare at the Impala and the parking lot and the sky. Which although was no longer too big, felt very empty. It wasn't agoraphobia, like what he'd had in the hospital, but the lack of knowing where he would go if he were to leave. Without Dean there was no point--

He stopped himself from thinking this because it didn't make any sense. Dean had been fully aware of who he was and who Sam was and still he'd done what he'd done. It had been wrong, all of it.

Finally Sam realized he needed to eat, so he took another shower and made his way across the street to the diner he and Dean had eaten at, and stood at the cashier's until someone spotted him. It was the waitress from before, still in the same jeans and apron, her hair in a ponytail, the same grease stain on her shirt.

"You want a table?" the waitress asked. "For one?"

"Yes," said Sam, his voice coming out a little louder than he'd planned.

"Wait," she said. "Weren't you here the other night?"

Sam nodded. His throat felt thick.

"You're like a different guy," she said. "I almost didn't recognize you."

"Uh," said Sam. He didn't know what to make of that as she led him to a table. It wasn't that he was Deanless, he'd eaten in plenty of places without Dean without it attracting any interest at all.

He sat down in the booth she showed him, and drank the water she brought him and looked at the menu. And tried not to get angry at Dean. Or himself, come to that. It hadn't been helping, it wasn't going to help. He needed to figure out what to do.

When she came back, he ordered a coke and the chicken fried steak, which she assured him was excellent. She brought it less than five minutes later, while Sam was still staring at the table, trying to figure out what she meant about being a different guy. So he asked her.

"Well," she said, adjusting her order pad in her apron pocket. "You were just different. I don't know. The way you stood there. The way you looked at me." She shrugged. "Straighter. More focused. Yeah? I don't know how to explain it any way than that." She didn't even mention Dean, and it was as if, for a second, Dean was a phantom in Sam's imagination.

Then she left Sam sitting there, numb, blinking at his icy cold drink and his steaming plate of food that in the hospital would have been cold and coagulated long before he took a knife and fork to it. He ate it as fast as he could before the steam had even died down, his stomach gurgling and churning at the same time. It wasn't used to eating like this, he wasn't used to enjoying what he ate. He made himself slow down, and finished what was on his plate without getting any desert. No, not even pie. He wiped his mouth and paid the bill from the cash in his wallet, and walked out without saying thank you.

Back in the room, he laid down on the bed, not taking his shoes off, and waited for his stomach to settle while he stared at the ceiling with hot eyes. It was whacked that he didn't know how to focus without Dean. He didn't need Dean. Dean had left him in the hospital for weeks and weeks and weeks, all the while knowing who Sam was. Why had he done that?

Sam sat up, clutching his stomach. Dean could have gotten them out at any time. He could have called Bobby, or someone else, and spared them both a lot of hassle. They could have avoided multiple Treatments, the horrible food, and Randy, and Dr. Logan, and that fucking art therapist and her stupid chalk. Dean had quickly figured out where they were, about the broken window, they could have fucking walked out of there, and not had the run in with Henriksen, who had been--

Henriksen had been scary. Sam hadn't known who he was at the time, but he'd still been scary. Dean had known, of course, and it must have made him lose his mind to have the two of them trapped in that place and Henriksen standing at the door with the keys to his hand, and there'd been no way around him. Dean had been white as a sheet, and still he'd leaped up at Henriksen, telling him to shut the fuck up and why?

Because Henriksen had said they were brothers, and of course Dean had not wanted anyone to find out. But why? Oh, yes, that was why. Because he'd been screwing around with his brother, and that wasn't supposed to happen, only Dean made it happen. Made it keep happening. Stopped anything that got in his way of it happening. Sick. That's what it was. Sam didn't know which was worse, Dean doing it, or Sam begging him to. If Dean had just said they were brothers, Sam wouldn't have. He knew that.

Only. Yeah, at the time, when anyone dared say Dean was his brother, even Dean himself, Sam had gone ballistic because his brother was dead. He'd attacked Dean, even, that first time, and after that, Dean had never even so much as hinted at it, walking on eggshells to keep even the thought of it from Sam. But for his own gain? Maybe not.

And how had this all come about, them being in the hospital in the first place? Sam remembered obsessing about the blue man with lightning hands, and talking about it non-stop until the hospital decided enough was enough and slapped him into isolation and signed him up for multiple Treatments. The blue man was probably the djinn, who had cast some sort of weird nightmare spell as he died, determined to get the last big of revenge against the Winchesters, who'd taken away his dream factory. Dean had known this too, yet he'd never clued Sam in about the truth. Yet one more secret.

Sam rolled on his side and curled his knees up, burrowing his head in the pillow. He didn't know whether he wanted to throw up or shower again or pace. Maybe he could sleep again, let his food digest. Maybe in his dreams he could be back there, back to the hospital, in that room with Dean, not knowing who he was, moving towards Dean, expectant. Wanting Dean to touch him, being lulled into sleep. It had been peaceful and safe, the not knowing, and Dean had been there.

*

It took a week before Sam was tired of the walls of the motel. Tired of the food at the diner, of the waitress and her perky ponytail who never seemed to not be working. Of the dull haze of the sky that wanted to either turn to rain or heat up and burn off into blue, but that had somehow forgotten how to do either. When he pulled out the maps from the trunk of the Impala and spread them on the table, he looked at them and realized why. Quincy was right on the river, and though the town itself might be on the high cliffs above the river, the damp air kept rising and rising, spreading itself like a thin frosting. So rain or shine, Quincy was soaked with water. Which is why the room smelled so strongly of mold.

He stared with unfocused eyes through the open door that he'd forgotten to close and then realized he was looking at the Impala. It had been sitting there long enough and still enough to have gathered some dust, and any fingerprints or handprints showed thickly. That was his handprint, he knew, by the passenger door. And beside it, another handprint. Dean's. A little smaller, the marks of his fingers overlapping with the marks of Sam's fingers.

Standing, Sam went to the open door and looked at the car, at the rime of dust, the handprints. How the back tire on the passenger side needed a little air. How the car probably needed an oil change after having been sitting all that time. Dean certainly would have thought of it had he been there. Would probably have gotten the supplies and done it in the parking lot. If there was anything in the world he loved, it was that car.

But then, Henriksen had said _Sam's the only thing he loves in this world and there's nothing he wouldn't do for his brother. Nothing._ So which did Dean love more, him or the car? Then he realized it was neither, because Dean had left both of them. _Had to go_ , the note had said. And that was it.

Making that decision, just like he'd left him and Sam in the hospital, not even asking Sam--

But then, he _had_ asked Sam. Several times _. If I left, would you come with me? If I wanted to go, would you go too?_ Blowing a wish on a dandelion, looking up at Sam and smiling. And when Sam had balked or shook his head or freaked out, Dean had settled back down and not asked for a while. Distracted him with other ideas, and then asked again a different way.

_Here's the secret, here's the broken window. You can keep a secret, can't you, Sam? You can trust me, Sam. Here. Let's work on this puzzle, like we used to when we were kids, and our families were close, don't you remember?_

Dean had never really asked him if he remembered as if he'd wanted an answer, he'd just kept the truth from Sam, and skirted around everything else. Like he did, like he always did with anything that smacked of being emotionally deep or significant. Shrugging it off with a joke or humor, pushing it away with smiles and shrugs. Leaving Sam to worry about that sort of stuff, because Dean just didn't care.

Sam turned away from the open door, rubbing his arms with his hands, feeling itchy and raw all over. Like he should be going somewhere instead of just standing there. Like he should be doing something instead of moping in a motel room that smelled like it could use a good soaking down with bleach. The greasy carpet underfoot. The splotches on the ceiling that he knew by heart now.

He shut the door and sat at the table with the map open in front of him. It was gloomy enough so that he reached over and rolled the knob on the chain that stretched from the overhead lamp, which was probably supposed to be a rustic chandelier. The light spread across the map, showing Sam the thin red lines and the wide blue ones, the darker purple for state borders. Splotches of sky blue for water, and the thick orange for towns. He knew maps, had been looking at them all his life. Understood that a hundred miles along a dark, wide blue line would take you just over an hour, if you were going fast. But that along a thin red one, especially one that bent and squiggled across the paper, might take you more than two hours.

His fingertip traced the line along the Mississippi river where it barely bent to accommodate the outlines of Quincy, then on down to St. Louis, where it made a full half circle. Roads were funny things. Some of them took you through country so flat you could drive with one finger on the wheel. Others took you across rivers on bridges so wide you couldn't even see the water. And some red lines, although it looked like they were surrounded by plain old white on paper, actually took you through some of the prettiest places you'd ever want to see.

As he looked at the map, he thought about those places. And wondered which ones Dean was headed to. And then Sam wondered why he cared. Dean had messed him up, and let him wait in that hospital not knowing who he was. Had threatened to leave him there, and then turned around and let Sam fuck him. Had dragged him here to the middle of nowhere, lying the whole time. And then he'd left him high and dry. _Had to go._

Folding his arms across the map of Missouri, Sam tucked his head in his arms and cried.

*

The sign at the edge of town said Bentonville, AK, population 33, 744. Underneath it, it read Headquarters of Wal-Mart! That's when Dean knew the devil resided there. Only he couldn't hitch a ride to save his life, so when sunset came and it started to rain, he headed into the first bar he spotted.

It wasn't just to get out of the rain, but to stave off the feeling that he'd headed smack into middle America, so proud of itself he hated everything about it, from the shiny fountain to the billboard signs announcing the coming of a new minor league hockey team. The bar would have beer and then he could drink that and not think about the whole normal feel of it that Sam would have liked. At least before. Were Sam there, at that moment, the only thing he would probably think about would be either fucking Dean or killing him. And that was dependant on whether he'd gotten his memory back. Dean didn't want to deal with either.

The bar was perfect. The floor was made of plywood, and the mirror behind the bar was streaked and spotty with age. It wasn't a tourist trap bar; Wal-Mart hadn't been able to absorb it and make it bright and shiny. There were a few guys at the bar, and a pair of couples drinking in a booth, eating what looked, even from this distance, like cheese fries. Perfect. Dean made his way to the bar, and, shifting his jacket back on his shoulders, sat on a stool at the end of it. The bartender came over.

"Yeah?"

"I'll have a beer," said Dean. "Whatever's on tap. And some cheese fries."

The bartender nodded and went back to the kitchen where he snapped out the order and someone grumbled back. It felt like home.

The beer and the cheese fries came together, and Dean ate and drank and let his legs relax, and thought about which way he was going next. Not that it mattered, but it was always good to have a plan. He didn't know if Sam was following him, though, so the plan ought to involve some unpredictability. Which was already built in, really. When you hitched, you didn't know where your ride was taking you. That would help. So would keeping a low profile. Dean thought he could do that.

Next to him, a few stools down, two guys ordered more beer, hunched over the counter as though they were drafting battle plans they didn't want anyone to overhear.

"My wife's not crazy, you know," said one man. "She's not."

"I'm not saying she is, Len, but she's grieving pretty hard, and you know--"

"Don't tell me she is, I know she is. I watch her every single fucking day."

It sounded like a fairly emotional conversation for two men in a bar to be having. Dean considered picking up the remains of his cheese fries and beer to move to one of the booths along the wall. He was just about to lift his chin to signal to the bartender his intent when Len slammed the countertop with the flat of his hand. He turned a little way towards Dean, his eyes scanning Dean and then dropping as he saw that Dean was looking at him.

Then he turned back to his friend. "She says he's still here, he's a ghost, wandering through our house, looking at his toys, and I believe her. God damn it, Brian, I believe her. She would never lie to me about something like that."

"At his toys?" asked Brian. Dean could almost imagine Brian's eyebrows going up.

"Yeah," said Len. His voice quivered. "He was only six when he--only six."

Suddenly Dean realized what they were talking about. A little boy had died and he was sticking around, probably because he didn't realize he was dead. He missed his toys. Loved his mom.

Taking a large swallow of his beer, Dean contemplated what he was on the verge of doing. If it wasn't a straight out salt and burn, then it was ghost whisperer stuff, you just talked to the ghost and told him to move on. Told him there'd be toys in heaven or something. The hardest part would be watching the mom cry when she realized her little boy was gone for good.

Dean stood up and left some money under his plate. He looked at the two men, with their flannel shirts and heavy boots and realized that the hardest part might actually be trying to convince them that he could help them. After all, he wasn't Melinda Gordon in anyone's book.

"Hey, guys," he said, standing close but not too close. They both turned to look at him with their working men's faces, their necks tanned above their white t-shirts, no doubt bought at Wal-Mart, since they lived in a part of the country where spending an afternoon walking the shelves was high entertainment. "Uh, I think I can help you." If he didn't get punched in the mouth first, though at least that would keep him too busy to think about Sam.

*

In the morning, Sam packed up the room and shoved everything in the back seat of the Impala. He paid the bill, and turned in the key, and ignored the diner across the street. He didn't want to eat there again, he wanted to be on the road, he wanted to be going. To where, he didn't know. But he did. The restless feeling kept pushing through him, making him want to move on.

As he drove through town, the engine rumbling beneath him, he realized he needed to make a stop. So after he went over the wide, slanted bridge across the Mississippi from Illinois into Missouri, he started looking for a garage. It had to be the right kind of garage, a Grease Monkey or anything like that wouldn't do. Not for Dean's car, not even if Dean wasn't around to see it and bitch about it.

He spotted one along the right side of the street just as he was about to take a left in Taylor to head south. It was a two-bay garage, independent of any chain, and the lot was tidy and the paint was new, even if the building looked like it had been built in the fifties. Sam pulled in, parking the car in front of one of the empty bays. The other one had a truck of some kind up on jacks. As Sam got out, the mechanic, Ralph, according to the greasy nametag sewn into his shirt, came over, wiping his hands.

Ralph looked at the Impala, not saying anything, though his mouth pursed together like he wanted to whistle at it. If Dean had been there, the two of them would have mooned over the chrome and drooled over the engine, and Dean would have bragged about how many miles were on it, and how he'd fixed the tranny once, all by himself the summer he had been seventeen. Sam had ignored him then, had ignored him later when Dean had tried to tell him the story about how cool it had been.

But right now, he could have used Dean to help him tell Ralph what needed to be done. He had no idea. Fluids. Air. Something like that.

"So," said Ralph, looking at Sam now instead of the car, his eyes scanning the dust. "You been on the road a while."

Ralph was about to say something else, or ask another question, something detailed and mechanical, because of course anyone driving this car would know it by heart, inside and out. And that would leave Sam standing there with his mouth open, like a fool.

"It's my brother's car," he said. So far, all true. "He was in the hospital for a while, and now he's getting out." Still true, except that Dean was out, only Sam didn't know where he was. "The car's been sitting, and I need--"

"Oh," said Ralph. "I see." And he did see, right away, that Sam wasn't a car guy. He knew how to drive, how to fill it up with gas, and maybe he could feel if something was wrong with the engine, if it didn't pick up speed the way it was supposed to, even if he didn't know why. But he knew enough to bring it in.

And now he felt so lost because even if Ralph did see, Sam didn't. Why should he give a damn? The car was his; Dean had left it to him. He could sell it to this guy for whatever it was worth, Ralph would know, and buy himself something else. Something new. Nondescript. Why the hell he and Dean drove around in something that was so fucking recognizable was beyond him.

"Oil change," said Ralph, walking around the car, leaving Sam to stand by the driver's side door. "She sounded like she was tuned up pretty good, so fluids check and fill. Check belts. Check tire pressure. New wipers."

He came back to Sam. "That'll cost you around fifty bucks. I'll even rinse her down for you, no extra."

When Sam opened his mouth to protest, Ralph said, "Touchless, I swear. Just a few suds. The paint job'll never even know I was there."

It took Sam a minute to realize that what Ralph wanted was to simply be with the car. Like Dean would. He was a car guy and that's what they liked. Sam could never understand it, but he nodded his head anyway, and took the keys out of his pocket to unlock the back door so he could pull out the map.

He went over to Ralph and handed him the keys. Ralph smiled so wide Sam thought his face would crack. "I'll just go have coffee. About an hour, you think?"

"Two," said Ralph, and Sam could swear he was about to start begging.

As he walked off, Sam shook his head. Car guys were just weird.

Weirder still was why he'd gotten the map out before he headed to the cafe. Why he was going to look at it while he drank some coffee? Was he going to look for Dean? Why? Why the hell would he do that? Maybe he'd get some waffles while he thought it over

*

The second Dean's feet hit Stillwater, OK, and shifted his backpack on his shoulder, he knew it was different than Bentonville. The young couple who had given him a lift lived in a new development on the edge of town, so they dropped him off at someplace they called The Strip and waved goodbye. Dean stood watching them go, not really sure why they'd given him a lift. He would have thought that people like that wouldn't be helping drifters. Especially ones who had been pretty much wearing the same clothes for about two weeks now. He'd tried to wash what he wasn't wearing at a truck stop one night, but hadn't had enough change for soap, and just hadn't been up to scamming for it. The result of which, everything was just as dirty as everything else.

But The Strip was pretty nice, one of those downtown areas that was being done up new, and Dean didn't know what day it was, but there were a few college age students walking around. And bars, there were seven bars from where he was standing, and all of them looked promising. Then there was the diner at the end of the street, which might have real food. Which Dean realized, his mouth watering, was what he wanted. Which he would get, once he scammed someone out of their pool money. Surely one of the bars had pool tables. Surely.

Turned out they all did, and Dean was able to rake in a few hundred bucks. Which meant he'd be sleeping in a motel tonight, and then next night after that. There were pool tables strung from coast to coast, and all of them with players who had no idea how good Dean was. He didn't need the Impala. He didn't even need Sam. And Sam certainly didn't need him.

But the meal at the diner made him feel lonely, the longing for Sam a deep empty spot that no food could fill. There was no one to look at and smirk at while he chewed with his mouth open on purpose. There was no one to fight over bits of the paper with or to nudge when his eyes spotted something in the Town and Home section of the Stillwater _NewsPress._ Where Mrs. Lundy reported how well her flowers were growing, only she suspected that someone was planting mushrooms in circles on her lawn, and how sad it was that young vandals had nothing better to do than bother an old woman. Plus, she wished they'd find somewhere else to dance, weren't there dances at the college to go to?

Dean read the article again and realized that Mrs. Lundy was in grave danger of being danced into fairy land. It was lucky that she was too much a lady to go out and demand that the dancing be stopped, else she would have found herself face to face with a fairy dance. Maybe it was pixies. Either way, he could break the curse easy. Just get some salt and some marjoram and some thyme, maybe some holy water for good measure, and throw it all in there.

Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, he shoveled in the last of his biscuits and gravy. He loved places that served breakfast all day without asking questions and that didn't try to steer him towards something more lunchlike. Breakfast was best because you could have toast and jam and coffee till you were going to burst and no one said anything about vegetables. Well. Sam would, if he were here. But he wasn't. And he wasn't going to be.

Dean ducked his chin and fished out a ten, thinking that helping Mrs. Lundy would be a good distraction from the sudden hot sear that lanced down the middle of his heart. The muddle in his brain. He would do the work, and then he could head west again.

*

Sam hit highway 70 and went west, across the rolling green hills and dips that made up the state of Missouri. It wasn't till the rain hit hard enough and he was forced to stop just outside of Grain City that he realized he had no idea where he was going. Or really, why.

He checked into a Travel Lodge that promised great rates, and once he got into his room, it was easy to understand. There was a coffee maker, as promised, but no coffee pot or packets of coffee. The light bulbs were all the energy efficient kind that gave off weak light that was still hard on the eyes. The smell of mold crept out of the bedding and the carpet. The TV predated cable by about five years and when Sam turned it on, it took it about that long to warm up. There was nothing on he needed to watch, he just needed the sound to keep him company.

He brought in only what he needed to get going in the morning, and ignored the menus for local eateries. Instead, he spread his map on the bed, and sat next to it, one knee cocked up, one booted foot on the floor, and looked at the map in the glinting, hard light.

While he'd been driving he'd thought about Dean. About the time when he'd bent close and asked Sam to stop taking his meds. Sam remembered that conversation, the way his heart had chittered in his chest at the thought of deceiving Dr. Logan, about being without the safety net of the pills that kept him calm. What if he'd tried to bite someone again, what if he'd tried to strangle someone?

But Dean had been so convincing, like he always was, so intent and focused on Sam that Sam had been easily able to shift his trust, if not all the way, then enough. Enough to stop taking his pills, a little less each day, becoming, under Dean's guidance, a little less muddled, a little more aware. Dean had been there, every second, monitoring Sam's progress with eyes sharper than any orderly. And those had been some _good_ orderlies.

It hadn't been Dean's fault that Sam had flipped out when Dean had said _we're leaving_ and _no more fooling around_. The hospital had put Sam back on a full dose of pills and who knew what else they'd shot him full of. It had taken four days for him to get off the meds the second time around. Which had left them vulnerable to Henriksen finding them.

But why had it taken long? Sam didn't know, but he imagined that if you just stopped taking something as powerful as the drugs they'd been given, then it might be hard on the body, or even dangerous. So the answer as to why it had taken so long, maybe that made sense now. You had to go slow. Dean's convincing argument hadn't been that, though. Rather, it had been that the drugs weren't helping him not think about monsters, and zombies and the blue man. And if the drugs weren't helping, then why take them?

Sam had to smile at that, at the thought of him rambling on about things that he thought and felt, about creatures he'd been told was imaginary. And all the while, Dean listened and nodded, not laughing, not mocking him. Not filling him in either, because Sam's memories had to come back on their own. That's what Dean had said. So he'd been patient, knowing what Sam had needed better than the doctors did. Better than Sam had. Dean had been forced to play both sides of the fence, knowing and pretending not to know.

And Sam, looking back, realized that with his amnesia, he'd been like a kid, inexperienced as one, that was for sure. Seeing only what was obvious, and wanting what he wanted. But, it had been Dean, back from Treatment, who had pulled Sam on top of him, his voice thick, _You come'ere,_ his body shivering. And when Sam had asked him if he wanted more kisses, Dean had not said no.

That had led to so many things. Not all at once, no, but little by little, going in the opposite direction from where the meds should have taken them. Not calm and serene like he supposed the hospital wanted the patients to be. But alert and aware. And sharing such a small space, they almost couldn't help themselves. Whose whacked out idea had that been? Dr. Logan's.

Sam realized he was rubbing the scar on his arm where the orderly had dug out the needle tip, remembering how shaken up he'd been, how much he'd wanted Dean. And after, in the Day room, with his head on Dean's lap, and Dean had stroked his hair, and leaned close to kiss him. And how he'd said what he felt then, that he loved Dean. And how Dean hadn't said anything to that, not really. But that he'd not turned away either.

Sam shifted on the bed, and the map slipped into the valley created by his thigh. He started unlacing his boots, almost absently, needing to lie down, needing to think. He stood up and stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt, which felt more comfortable in the stuffy room, and thought about taking a shower in the morning. He arranged the pillows in a pile, and lay back down and tried to look at the map by holding it up, but the atlas was too unwieldy and wagged between his hands like a sheet in a high wind. So he rested it splayed out on his chest and let his eyes drift to the TV where they settled, unfocused.

It was the news station, with the weatherman blathering on about this front and that occlusion. Sam could barely hear him, but he recognized the isobars, and knew what the numbers and the cloud icons and the sun icons meant. More rainy weather where he was, more sunny weather elsewhere. Wasn't that always the way?

His mind clicked backwards, thinking of the Day room and him and Dean watching TV together, watching whatever was on the TV because the channel selection was controlled by the orderlies. Dean's knee bumping into his, both of them warm in the cool room because their sides touched, all up and down. The smell of the air, medicinal and tart, the distant smell of old pee and mouse droppings. The closer smell of Dean's sweat, familiar and comforting. Dean turning his head to look at Sam, watchful and careful, smiling, his eyes as warm as a home fire. And Sam's response to Dean's attention. _Can I tell you a story? Before I was big I was little. I can't touch the soap, so will you give me a bath?_

What had he been doing, acting like a five year old, letting Dean take care of him like that?

Maybe the way he'd been had something to do with it, a combination of the amnesia and the trauma Dr. Logan kept insisting he suffered. If so, then what the hell had Dean been doing, touching him and kissing him, and arching against him, and all in the dark like a deep, terrible secret?

Because it had been. No one had ever known what they were doing. Or if they had, no one had said anything. And why should they bother? In the hospital's collective mind, Sam and Dean were unrelated. If they had known the truth, then they would have separated the two of them because _brothers didn't do that._

He threw the map down on the floor, not really caring if the pages ripped or the spine broke, even though the map was really Dean's and Dean liked to keep the maps nice, with crisp edges, and folded where they should be folded. He might have tears in his jeans, but by God, the maps were kept tidy. Like his car. Everything else could go to hell but that. What he loved, he cared for at the same time as he controlled. And in the hospital, all the years of learning and experience that told the doctors what meds to give Sam and Dean, or that they needed this kind of therapy or that kind of structure, all of that, Dean had thrown out the window. Deciding for himself what he and Sam needed. Especially what Sam needed.

He understood about the meds, Dean had taken them both off slowly and that was why they'd needed to hang out in the loony bin. About Dean listening and being watchful and letting Sam simply be who he needed to be. It wasn't anything Dean wouldn't have done under normal circumstances: taking care of Sam was Dean's number one job. Okay, about that, fine. But everything else, it just didn't make sense. And Dean had been in charge, so the fault lay with Dean. Even though, beyond that, Sam knew that he'd pulled and pushed and cajoled and there was nothing in the world that could help Dean resist a Sam who wanted something. Even if that something was him. But Dean had started it. Hadn't he?

Sam knew he needed to find out. He got up to turn off the TV, smelling the spark of burnt wire in the air, listening to the hiss of the tubes as they cooled. He might not know exactly where Dean was going, but he could make a plan and track him down. Hell, he'd been raised to hunt scary monsters, he sure as hell could hunt Dean. And find him. And then ask him why.

*

San Jon was a bend in the road, nothing more than a collection of gas stations and chain motels along the interstate; the first major stop inside the New Mexico state line. Dean stepped out of someone's truck into the warm, bright air, and waved to say thank you. It was almost hot. Under the silver blue skies, he shucked his jacket and looped it through the straps of his backpack, which hung from one shoulder.

The couple hundred bucks in his pocket had dwindled to a hundred and fifty, but that would keep him till Albuquerque, where he thought he might head. And then, from there, north. There was a highway there that crossed between New Mexico and Utah that he'd seen in pictures for forever. It was someplace in Monument Valley, with stacks of bright red rocks and pointy sandy ones that jutted into the sky, where all the John Wayne pictures had been filmed, all those good westerns that Sam professed to hate so much but ended up watching with Dean anyway. Maybe he would just head up there and start walking into the desert and not look back.

But first he needed something to eat. There wasn't a non-chain diner at hand, but there was Sonic, which had the best damn onion rings on the planet. Dean headed over to it, checking his wallet. He didn't have a car, but he could stand at the window and buy the onion rings. And a coke. And a double cheeseburger. Sometimes, fast food joints came in handy.

*

In the morning, Sam packed up and put the plastic card key on the table near the window. He wasn't sorry to be leaving, even if it was raining. The sky looked a little brighter to the west, but he needed a plan before he got going. Otherwise, he'd just be chasing his own tail. He filled the Impala up with gas and continued driving on I-70, going west, winding his way through Kansas City, which was never as flat as it ought to be. Seriously. Kansas was flat, or at least mostly. Kansas City, however, was uneven and stacked like it was built on cliffs, overlooking the Missouri river, with the feel of an east coast town, and the sprawl of a city on the plains.

When he got into Overland Park, he realized he had to stop. Kansas just felt wrong, and he was too close to Lawrence, and if he was looking for Dean, then he had to know Dean would never go there. Not again, not ever. So he pulled into a Perkins that looked fairly new, and though it smelled like paint and plaster, it was a damn sight better than it smelling like mold. He asked for a big table so he could spread out his map. Then he ordered French toast and coffee, with sausage on the side, and thought about Dean. Looking at the map was only to distract him; he had no idea which way to head next.

The waitress kept his coffee filled and took away his plate, sticky with butter and sugar, when it was empty. The French toast had been edible, but nothing he could have crowed to Dean about, in the never ending I-ordered-something-better-than-you contest between them. In a place like this, Dean would have ordered the pancakes, nothing fancy, just the regular ones. And with Dean's unerring ability to know about things like that, the pancakes would have beat out the French toast by a mile. And Dean would have started talking about getting a little scoreboard because it was _important_ to keep track of these things. His mouth quirking as he tried not to smile.

Sam missed Dean so much, so suddenly, his throat closed up, and his stomach lurched upwards.

The waitress came by with some newspapers in her arms, and pretended not to notice the dampness of Sam's eyes or the way he couldn't look at her.

"You want a newspaper, there?"

"Sure," said Sam. He swallowed. "Sure, what do you have?"

" _Capital Journal_ , the _Star_ , the _Wichita Paper_ , and of course, the _Tulsa World_."

Sam held his arms wide, and made believe he was smiling. The newspapers would make him feel less weird and alone. "I'll take 'em all," he said.

She laid the papers down in a stack. He wiped his hands on his jeans, took a huge swallow of coffee, and started ruffling through them. He tossed away the classifieds and the business sections, and flipped through the local news of the _Journal_ and the _Star_ , taking in the ads for men's clothing and sports equipment. He scanned the articles about golf tournaments and flower shows. Then, when the waitress had filled his coffee cup again and he doctored it up the way he liked it, he dug into the _Paper_.

He didn't know what he was looking for, but then, he and Dean never did. Going through the newspaper was as straightforward as breathing, and had the feel of something he knew and made him feel like he was doing something. Rather than sitting in a still too new Perkins along I-70 in the middle of nowhere. Not that Overland Park was nowhere to the people who lived there, but still. He looked up at the empty seat across from him; Dean would have known what he meant.

He looked at the _Tulsa World_ next. It wasa sharp little paper, well organized with clear type that was easy to read. After years of reading papers, Sam knew quality when he saw it. Perhaps there was a college in Tulsa, he didn't remember, but often college towns had better papers, almost as good as the ones in the big cities. He turned to the Community section and started scanning, sipping his coffee as he went, thinking about how maybe he should order some toast and slather it with jam. And then his eyes saw it.

It was just a little piece, an article about four or so paragraphs long, taking up space because the article before it had ended and there wasn't enough room for a real ad. The title said _Angels Unaware_. There was almost nothing supernatural or odd about it. It told the story of a missing little girl, and the stranger who'd come to town and found her. The local sheriff had questioned the man, but then the woman who'd given him a lift as far as Tulsa who could attest to the fact that the man couldn't have been the one who'd taken the little girl because he'd been with her. It had all been cleared up, apparently, and the man had said his name was Kris Warren. But no one could locate him and there was a reward going uncollected. The mother of the little girl had said he was an angel and angels didn't need money and God bless him, wherever he was.

Obviously he was not in Kansas, that's for sure. Kris Warren had been the name Dean'd used when they'd gotten a motel room, when they'd taken down the shtriga in Fitchburg. When he and Dean had been regular brothers. Before.

He looked at the article and read it again, trying to keep calm in the busy Perkins, though his insides started spinning. There was no way he could be wrong. It also showed him what he'd not known, and that was the fact that Dean was leaving a trail. Dean had helped out some folks who needed him when he'd happened to come across them. He'd come to town, a stranger, and left beloved, an angel, unrewarded perhaps, but an angel just the same. It was so typically Dean, that impulse.

Sam sucked the remains of syrup from the edge of his finger and realized that if there was this little notice in the paper, then there would be others. Sam didn't have to figure out where his brother had gone. All he had to do was follow the trail of black and white breadcrumbs, even if Dean didn't realize he was leaving them.

Sam picked up the bill that the waitress had left and stuck a ten down on the table. He didn't want to mess with waiting for the credit card to be run. He had some research to do.

*

In Moriarty, as Dean stood at the check-in desk at the Flying J motel, he listened to the clerk talking on the phone while she handed him his keys.

"Rachel, there are no such things, okay? No--no, your grandma, I don't care what she says, it's a legend. She's drunk, is what she is. No, I'm not saying--but look. It's a legend. A freaking legend from the old country, all the dogs are well behaved around here, my dad says the last wolf got trapped or shot at years ago."

The clerk took a huge breath and shook her head and rolled her eyes at Dean as if to include him in the conversation about how weird the person on the other end of the line was. "I looked it up. I googled it already. Black dogs are a legend, a made up story. Your grandma is going senile if she thinks that's what's sneaking around your house. And it certainly didn't walk into the church--"

Dean looked down at the key. It was a regular, metal key with a yellow diamond shaped plastic tag that had the room number on it. He curled and uncurled his fingers around it, feeling the edges cut into his palm.

The clerk was trying to convince her friend that black dogs were not real. Dean could tell her that they were real, but she probably wouldn't believe him. What he couldn't explain was the way he kept running into this, into people who needed his help with little jobs. There'd not even been any big monsters, just black dogs, boy ghosts, the zombie in Enid, the poltergeist in Woodward. A string of them, like they were following him around. Or like he was following their path. Either way, here he was, and here was a black dog, apparently, and it was beyond his capacity to resist the challenge. Even without Sam, Dean could take care of this.

He walked away and out the door while the clerk was still talking. He figured he'd take a shower and get something to eat and then check it out. He couldn't ignore the black dog, and he wouldn't. That's not the way he'd been raised.

*

Sam drove in the warm air with the windows rolled down, going west in I-70 and then took the Kansas turnpike to Wichita and then Wellington. The land along the highway was as flat as it ought to be, with slight rises and falls that the road went over, the green prairie grasses spreading out from it, and the spray of yellow and purple flowers, bright from the rain.

He had the _Tulsa World_ on the seat next to him, but it was a week old. He figured on driving until he got to Tulsa and then he'd find a motel and crack open his laptop and start poking around the internet, which he was very good at.

Dean had once told him that Sam was so good at finding that he could find a mouse's fart in a high wind if he wanted to. If that were so, he'd have little trouble finding Dean. Really, very little. Especially if Dean was being Dean, and how could he be anything but? Saving people, and hunting things left a trail a mile wide. Oh, Sam would be able to find him. Easy.

The question was, what would he say to him when he did?

 

**Chapter 27**

Sam pulled into Albuquerque at about 10 o'clock, having driven from Moriarty after breakfast. The trail had started at Bentonville, Arkansas, of all places, had strung itself through the northern part of Oklahoma, dotted itself through eastern New Mexico, and had ended here with another article about an angel. If angels could be said to wear leather jackets and thick black boots. Which they did, as Sam knew, unless Dean had finally gotten hot enough to take the jacket off.

Sam's favorite stop was the grandmother in Moriarty, Alice Bevin, who was as knowledgeable about Welsh legends as Sam, maybe even more. She'd lectured him about black dogs, and told him about pixies and brownies and Sam tried not to laugh when she warned him not to dance inside of a ring of mushrooms. She'd been reading the papers too, it sounded like. He wrote down everything she told him and thought it too bad that he couldn't tell her the truth. But he liked hearing her description of Dean.

"That young man, he came right up my sidewalk and started talking to me through the screen door. Said he knew all about my troubles and could he help me. Straight talker too, not a mumbler. I can't abide mumbling."

"So what did he do, exactly?" Sam asked. Of course, he already knew what Dean had done.

"Well, I opened the screen door and told him I wasn't ready for death to take me, dog or no dog, and then he looked at me. You know, he had this little smile, like he was laughing but I knew he wasn't laughing at me. He believed me, unlike that shiftless son-in-law of mine that my daughter Denise insisted on marrying. Were I fifty years younger, I wouldn't have minded marrying this young man, said his name was Nigel Tufnell, even though, I mean, Tufnell? What kind of last name is that? But he had these eyes, green, like a mine full of emeralds."

Sam knew those eyes. Knew he shouldn't be thinking about that. Should be concentrating on this hunt. This very important hunt. So he wrote then name Nigel Tufnell on his pad of paper, even though he already knew the name, because the name in the article had mentioned it clearly. Dean had told Alice and Alice had told the papers because, of course, everyone should know about how she'd found this nice young man to take care of her little black dog problem.

"So then what happened?"

"What happened?" She looked at him like he was being rude. "Why, he planted bits of iron on the edges of my lawn and sprinkled salt all over the place and the black dog was just gone. Just gone, like it never was." Now she shook her head. "No one believed me then and they don't now. But Nigel did. So I made him some bacon and eggs and with a side of French toast made out of Texas bread 'cause that's what he said he wanted. He wouldn't take any money."

Of course not.

So now, Albuquerque. Sam had the address of a Mrs. Clara, who lived south of the highway in the older part of Old Town, and Sam suspected, not the tourist part of town either. This was proven to be right as he drove through the wide flat streets, where the houses looked like adobe huts painted over white and pink and pale blue, and the street signs looked faded by years in the sun, and the heat seemed to sit very still on the tops of the creosote bushes that grew in the empty lots.

The heat was kind of nice actually, and the bright sun in a very blue sky was a nice change from the contestant rain and grey clouds of the mid-west. But he was starting to bake inside the Impala a little, so he stopped at a gas station along Central Avenue to fill her up (he'd started thinking of the car as _her_ rather than _it_ sometime after his encounter with Ralph), and let them both cool down, and bought some bottled water from the cooler.

He paid for the gas and the water with cash, and then went outside while the gas station attendant watched him and then looked at the car through the scratched windows. It kept surprising Sam how many people looked at the car. He guessed that when he was with Dean, he let Dean pay attention to that, and had ignored the whole thing. The car was Dean's along with everything else that went with it. Sam wanted to give it back to him.

He stood in the shade of the awning to drink the cold water and look at the map and the address. He wanted to get to Dennison road, but it didn't go through. While he chewed on his lower lip, the gas station guy came out to talk to a man while both men looked at Sam and stared. Then the gas station guy came over. His name tag said Bart.

"You lost, eh?" asked Bart.

"Actually," said Sam. "I'm trying to find--here," he showed the map to Bart. "Here. I'm doing an interview--" He let his voice trail off. Sometimes people told reporters information that they wouldn't tell the cops. Plus people loved to talk. "I'm going to interview Mrs. Clara. She said an angel paid her a visit, it's a local human interest story for--"

"Mrs. Clara," said Bart. It sounded like he knew her. "You take Old Coors, and then go right on Gonzales, and then left on 57. That'll take you to Dennison. Mrs. Clara lives in a red house."

"Hey, thanks." Sam nodded a smile at Bart and then got back in the Impala. She started right up, appreciative of the rest, and he followed Bart's instructions to the letter. There was the red house, a little one-level adobe house painted brick red with white trim. The lawn was bare but tidy, with a row of cactus and yucca along the edge of the sidewalk that looked like it had been planted on purpose. And on the sidewalk, in a dark blue house dress, was a dark-haired woman, sweeping the cement.

Sam parked the car along the street and got out. The neighborhood was still and quiet, and Mrs. Clara, as it probably was, stopped sweeping to look at him. When he got closer, she was still just watching him.

"Hello," he said. "I've come from the _Tulsa World_ to do an interview with you about your recent visitor. Who I understand you think was an angel, and so--"

"No habla ingles," she said, and Sam recognized that much.

"You're Mrs. Clara, right?" He said this a little loudly, and pointed at her.

She pointed at herself. "Si, Mrs. Clara."

Shit. How the hell was he supposed to manage this? He didn't speak Spanish, but the reporter who had originally interviewed her had. Otherwise, how would her story have gotten into the paper? And then, on the heels of that, he wondered how the hell had Dean talked to her, since Dean's Spanish was just about as limited as Sam's.

From behind him, Sam heard the screech of tires and a series of door slams and when he looked, a group of five young men were stepping out of a shiny low-rider car with those thin chrome rims on the wheels that spun even when the car was standing still. They were all wearing white t-shirts and bandanas arranged in creative ways around their heads. They were shaved bald, as well, with almost identical moustaches and goatees, and Sam realized in two seconds that every gun he owned was about fifty feet too far away. And locked in the trunk besides.

"You bothering Mrs. Clara?" asked the young man closest to him. "Bart at the gas station called us. You think you can just walk in here and start bothering old women?"

"No," said Sam, staying calm. He'd not actually done anything, and if this was their turf, they were welcome to it. "I just--I'm a reporter following up on a story for the _Tulsa World_. It's about Mrs. Clara and the angel she said came to visit her."

The group of men shifted till they were in a half circle, blocking Sam all access to his car unless he went through them. The heat sparkled hard on the glints in the sidewalk. Sam hoped they couldn't see him sweat.

Mrs. Clara spoke, fast, all in Spanish, and Sam kept his eyes on the guy who had asked him the question. Then the young man answered her, also keeping his eyes on Sam. It was a stalemate at the moment. But this was where the trail ended. If he couldn't ask a few questions, then he'd have to wait till Dean left another breadcrumb, which would take days. He didn't want it to take days.

Then Mrs. Clara said something else, and this made the guy shake his head. Then he nodded.

"She wants to know what you want," he said to Sam now. "I told her you came about the angel. Do you want to hear about that?"

Sam nodded, wishing he spoke Spanish.

The young man spoke to Mrs. Clara, telling her this, taking a lot longer than seemed reasonable than to say, _yes he does, Mrs. Clara_. Then Mrs. Clara reached around Sam with the broom and whapped the guy in the side with it, delivering the blow with a startling string of Spanish.

Then the young man jerked his head at the other four, and Sam watched as they all piled back in the car. Then Mrs. Clara motioned for the two of them to follow her up the walk to her narrow front porch, which was wide enough to hold two folding chairs and not much else. But it was shade. Sam stood at the edges of it as Mrs. Clara sat down. The young man went into the house and brought her out a glass of water. He brought none for Sam, but Sam didn't care.

Mrs. Clara drank some of the water and rested the glass on her thigh. Then she started talking, looking at Sam. Telling her story. Sam knew it was a story because her voice held the cadence of it, even if he didn't understand the words. The young man translated, and she nodded as he talked.

"He came two days ago, was just walking by. Mrs. Clara had been bringing home groceries and tripped on the sidewalk. It's in very bad repair, she says, but the city won't fix it. The young man, who was white, helped her up and then carried her groceries home for her. At first, she'd been worried, she isn't as young as she used to be, but the young man was careful and kind and she felt she could trust him. She even let him in the house to get some bandages for her ankle--"

Sam looked down. Mrs. Clara had an ace bandage wrapped around her left ankle. All neat and tidy above the strap of her sandal and tucked in at the edges the way Dean would do it. Dean was close. So close.

"Then he put her groceries away, and then he fixed her sink and the back door screen, and even the air conditioner in her bedroom. She let him sleep on her couch, and then her friend Marta came over and he went to Marta's house and fixed her toilet. And the ceiling fan. Marta called, and told Mrs. Clara this, that he slept at her house last night, and said she fed him migas and then he left this morning."

"This morning?" asked Sam, his voice rising high. Dean had just been there, helping people. Getting them to trust him enough to give him a place to sleep for the night. Food in the morning.

The young man shrugged, because of course it was neither here nor there to him.

"That's what she said. Marta lives there." He pointed to the pale yellow adobe house across the street. "They've been friends forever, her and Mrs. Clara."

"Can you ask her which way he went?" Sam asked now, his heart thumping.

The young man turned to Mrs. Clara and asked her. Then he nodded and turned back to Sam.

"She said he wanted the way to Route 66, so he could hitch a ride. That way." The young man pointed back the way Sam had come and Sam realized, feeling somewhat light headed, that he'd just been there. Route 66 was the same as Central Avenue, which is where he'd been when he'd gotten gas in the Impala and asked for directions.

He reached out his hand and shook the young man's hand. Then he bent towards Mrs. Clara, realizing how tall he must seem, looming at her in the shade. But she shook his hand anyway, and smiled at him, and said something in Spanish. A little lost, Sam turned to the young man.

"She says that he was very nice, and that he had a beautiful face. Like an angel. She wanted to kiss it." The young man blushed a little at that, smiling at Mrs. Clara, and she back at him, and Sam knew he had to get going. He could catch up with Dean. If he hurried.

"Thank you," said Sam. He started to hurry away. Down the bright sidewalk to the hot street, where the Impala sat waiting for him.

"Hey!"

Sam stopped and looked back.

The young man was standing just out of the shade of the porch, his hand above his eyes to block the sunlight.

"That your car?"

"No," said Sam. "It's my brother's."

"Nice wheels," said the young man.

"I'll tell him," said Sam. And he would. Once he found him.

*

Central Avenue was made up of warehouses and gas stations and short little strip malls with pawn and gun shops baking in the sun. If Dean had about an hour head start, he might not have gotten far, or he could have hitched a ride and be long gone by now. Sam kept to the right hand lane and drove slowly, scanning the parking lots and the narrow sidewalks in front of the stores. It was slow going because the traffic was starting to build in the noon hour.

Then he got to the edge of town, where Central Avenue ran into I-40, where the town ended and the desert began. He pulled over to the side and scanned the horizon, looking into the glaring flatness ahead, and drummed his hands on the steering wheel. Like Dean would, like Dean had a thousand times, over and over, sometimes slipping his hand down so that his ring finger would clack against the plastic. Just to annoy Sam or maybe he never realized he was doing it.

It was getting down to it, and Sam knew he had to ask the question, the ratiocination one Dad had taught him that asked: _If I were Dean, where would I be going?_ It was one thing to follow Dean's trail by finding little articles about angels and black dogs in the paper. It was another to try and figure out why the trail went the way it did. Dean had been on this highway, walking, just about an hour before. Where was he headed? Into the desert? Sure. Possibly. But why?

Sam leaned over to grab the map out of the back seat, and he spread it out across the passenger seat, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the neck of his t-shirt. For good measure he leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window all the way. Better. Now he could concentrate.

New Mexico. Land of enchantment. Also, land of the missing Dean. Sam looked at the map, unable to figure out where Dean would go next and why. A stray wind flipped the corners of the map, and Sam held them down, smudging the edges with sweaty fingers. Including a smudge in the upper left corner, where he saw the dot next to the word _Shiprock_ , which started him to thinking. There was that highway, the one in all the movies, in Arizona maybe.

One night, when he and Dean had been socked in by snow somewhere in New York State, Dean had made him watch the Western marathon on cable. He'd sweetened the deal by providing the beer and pretzels and Jagermeister, going drunkenly on and on about the road and the rocks and John Wayne. He'd even looked it up on the internet, grabbing the laptop from Sam's duffle bag without so much as a by your leave. The pictures had been stark, the rocks all shades of red against the blue. But pure, with white clouds and one black streak of road cutting right through the middle. Sam could see why that would appeal to Dean. But that road was in Arizona.

Sam turned to the state map at the front of the atlas, tracing the red lines with his finger. Yes, it was very likely that Dean was headed there. To the spot on the map surrounded by plain white paper and thin red lines with the unassuming tagline of Monument Valley. Which meant that if Dean was going there, and couldn't be seen on the highway here, at the southwest edge of town, then he'd probably started walking north. Back through Albuquerque, where he would probably head up to 550 and go northwest through the mountains and over the flats.

Sam didn't let himself think. Instead, he turned the car around and headed back up Central Avenue, and kept driving till he was close to Old Town. He looked at the streets, thinking about someone walking and which road they would choose. Which road Dean would choose. Finally, he took a left at Rio Grande Boulevard, which lined by a mix of homes and shops and schools as it stretched off into the north. It looked unassuming, and busy enough but not too busy. Besides, it felt right.

Five minutes later and there he was. Sam's mouth went dry as he recognized the backpack first, set on the ground in the shade, and then the leather jacket that was slung through the shoulder straps. Then he saw the dusty jeans and the boots, and finally the set of those shoulders as he drove by almost running a red light. Dean had been standing in a dirt parking lot next to a silver trailer with a faded, striped awning swung out. The sign read "Fresh Tacos and Indian Fry Bread," and of course Dean would stop. Even if it were his last dollar, he was a sucker for fresh Mexican food. Sam turned around at the next intersection, wondering if he'd missed it. But no, there was the silver trailer, and Dean, lounging against the painted side of the adobe building that said _Little Shops_ , half in the shade, leaning against it like he owned it. And maybe, in his mind, for that moment, he did. His little piece of heaven.

This made him mad, him looking for Dean all this time while his brother sauntered across the country, not a care in the world. Leaving Sam behind asking questions without answers, making him worry. His chest felt like it was on fire, and the entrance to the parking lot behind the trailer came up fast and Sam had to turn hard, wheels spinning in the dust as the engine growled, sending up a cloud. He slammed on the brake, and turned off the engine and flew out of the car. He could already see that Dean had spotted him, eyes wide, throwing down the remains of his meal and taking off along the back of the building, disappearing around the corner and into the maze of adobe houses and alleys and shops. All simmering in the heat, a warren for Dean to hide in.

*

As Dean walked along the street, he saw the shine of a trailer and could see the large, hand-painted white sign. Even without being able to read it he knew that it was either tourist crap or real home-made Mexican food. He kept walking, feeling the dust and heat stirring around him with every step, and when he got close enough to read the sign, he let out a whoop. Indian fry bread and Mexican tacos. Cold beer. He could eat his fill and then walk out into the desert to die, and what a fitting end that would be. Only he knew that he wouldn't. He would order a nice meal, have one cold beer and keep walking. Hitching when he could. There where he was headed and what he would do once he got there was beyond him.

Money in hand, he stepped up to stand at the counter beneath the little cloth awning, and sighed. "Two tacos, one fry bread, and a beer."

"Si," said the man. "Seven dollars."

When Dean gave him the money, he started making up Dean's order. Dean watched as he listened to the cars pass by on the road behind him. When he got his food, he took off his backpack and leaned against the building, just about in the shade, and bit into the first taco. It was so good, dripping with juice from the meat and the sting of spices hot on his tongue, he finished it in three bites. The second one, he would make last longer, but just as he was unfolding the paper, he saw a flash of a black car go by. The flash felt familiar, but then, there were lots of black cars on the road, and he'd been looking for the Impala for so long, every black car made his head go up, his eyes scanning each length of black metal.

He turned back to the taco, and was halfway through chewing his first bite, had just taken a sip of beer, when the same black flash pulled into the parking lot behind the trailer, kicking up dust and burning rubber to break. Glinting black and chrome in the sun.

It was the Impala. It was _Sam_. For all the heat, Dean went cold, like someone had bathed him in ice water, bringing back sudden chill memories of the water in the institution that never quite got hot enough. And in the middle of that, his heart shot upward in his throat. How had Sam found him? And what did he remember? He didn't want to ask outright, maybe Sam was still the Sam that he'd known, maybe he wasn't.

He couldn't bear to find out. So he ran. He didn't even snatch up his backpack first, he needed to get out and away. But when he got around the building, the street didn't open up, it got narrow, went west to some warehouses and east to a school. Dean picked the warehouse, there was another warehouse behind that and--

But Sam was right behind him, slamming into him so hard that Dean slipped on the uneven ground, and they both crashed down onto the cement sidewalk. His left knee twisted, and was on fire, and he felt the sear of gravel against his skin, but it was _Sam_ , all sweat and furious above him, holding him down. Hair in his eyes. Both hands on Dean's shoulders, pressing, fingers digging in. The weight of Sam was suddenly there, his jeans were hot where they straddled Dean's thighs. The smell, hot and sweet and Sam, his Sam, soaking into him all around, and he wanted to lean into it, to tell Sam, _I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry, please_ \--

Then Sam shook him, banging Dean's head against the pavement. Sam was right there, in his face, heat pouring off of him, his eyes reflecting every memory, recognizing every part of Dean. Sam _knew_ him, and Dean felt his breath squeak out of his lungs. Sam was going to kill him, the muscles in his arms bare in the heat, brown from the sun, quivering. Mouth a straight, white-lipped line, eyes blazing and furious.

Then Sam opened his mouth, and said, "Before I was big, I was little."

Dean's heart sank. That Sam, the one in the institution, had said that, as a poem, a prayer, a way of remembering the brother that he loved. The brother who he now knew had used him terribly. Had enjoyed it.

"When did you remember?' asked Dean, trying to move his neck from the grit in the street. But Sam held him still.

"When I woke up and found your note, it was like a slap in the face and--"

Sam's voice sounded like it had been cut by blades, and it made Dean's heart ache. But there were several cars slowing down to look, and a group of kids on the sidewalk, standing stock still, watching two men try to kill each other right outside their playground. This wasn't right. It was a nice neighborhood. Someone was going to call the police.

"Sam, we need to get out of here. You can kill me, okay? But we gotta--"

Sam lunged to his feet and with a fist, hauled Dean up to stand right next to him. Mouth in Dean's ear, hissing. "You fucking take off again and I'll break both legs, you got that?"

Definitely Sam. Dean wanted to laugh a little, here was the old Sam, his Sam, the real one. Full of piss and vinegar, all legs and strut, knowing what he thought and what he felt and how to open his mouth and express it. But mad now, at Dean, killing mad, furious enough to make threats that he wouldn't carry out, but that he would say that--

"Sam," he said, reaching up to make Sam loosen his hold.

Sam knocked his hand away, flushed, breathless. "We are going back to the car, and you are getting in, and not giving me any crap, you got that?"

Dean got that. Shutting up was the better part of valor at the moment, but he took a step, his knee screamed at him, and he stumbled, the shirt in Sam's fist tearing.

Sam's brows lowered and the cars honked for them to get back on the sidewalk. He dragged Dean there, stumbling. "You--"

"It's just my knee, Sam," Dean said. "We--" But he didn't want to go on about it, that he'd been some dumb girl who couldn't roll when he fell to avoid wrenching his knee. Thank God it'd not been his ankle, that would have been just too girly.

His mind danced away from the real issue, Sam holding his shirt, the torn cotton flapping away, where the bruises from the zombie were clear and dark. Sam's fingers, so long and fine, Sam who could make it better. He shouldn't be thinking about that.

"What the fuck, Dean?" asked Sam. Then, not waiting for an answer, he looped his arm around Dean's ribs and started hobbling him back to the parking lot. Where the Impala was and his backpack and no chance to walk off into the desert and die. Sam wasn't going to have any of it, he knew this even before he might try to open his mouth.

When they got back to the car, Dean could see in a glance that it had been washed and waxed recently. Under the film of dust, the chrome was shiny and someone had put new wipers on. Even the tires looked deep black, like they'd been armoralled.

"What the fuck, Sam?" said Dean, much the way Sam just had.

Sam gave him a shove towards the car, reaching down to grab the backpack, flinging dust as he picked it up. "Just get in, we got to get out of here."

He threw the backpack into the open window of the back seat, and gave Dean another push, his hand large and warm in the center of Dean's back.

Dean slid into the passenger seat, his knee screaming at him, his arm flecked with grit and blood. His head ached from where it had thumped into the ground. Sam slammed the door behind him, pressing down the lock with a fist, even though, yeah, Dean could undo that in a hot second, it was the principle of the thing; Sam was making a point. And making another point by not handing over the keys to Dean. No, he got in the driver's side and started up the engine, gentle on the ignition and waiting a few seconds before setting her out of park and into reverse, just like he was supposed to, the way Dean had been lecturing at him to do for years.

Sam headed up Rio Grande, the same way Dean had been going, like it didn't matter to Sam where they went, because Dean had already decided their direction. But he was still mad, his mouth in that thin line, turned downward to scowl at the road, the traffic. Looking at anything but Dean.

Dean's heart fell. He'd handled everything so badly, from the moment he came to awareness in the hospital, to taking care of Sam. To leaving him. To this moment right here. He knew he was going to screw it up even before he began.

Sam drove north, through suburbs and more shops, driving through the flat streets like he'd studied the map and knew exactly where he was. Which he probably did. He took a left off Rio Grande when it ended, following the two lane blacktop through rural side streets, and then at the next big intersection, where 550 sped off into the desert, Sam took a left.

"Where are we going?" he asked, looking over at Sam. Sam wasn't looking at him.

"Where you wanted to go," said Sam. Terse. He reached down next to Dean's legs, and picked up the atlas to throw it at him. The spine was broken and the pages dog-eared, and it opened up sideways by itself in Dean's lap. The smudges told him that Sam had been tracing the roads with his fingers, like he did, even though he knew it pissed Dean off. The marks traced their way up to the northwest corner of the outlines of New Mexico, and then Dean knew that Sam knew. How did he know? Like he always did. Knowing what was inside of Dean, even when it was ugly. Or beautiful, like the shining, distant horizon of faraway places, sparkling in the sun.

Dean folded the map carefully between his two hands and placed it back on the floor next to his feet. They might be going where Dean wanted to go, but it would be Sam's way. And Sam was pissed as hell.

*

Sam wanted to keep driving, right into the west, where the sun would go down and hopefully take them both with it, car and all. But he couldn't ignore Dean in the seat beside him, dust streaking the side of his neck, the grit and speckles of blood on this arm. And especially not Dean's left leg that he casually held out straight like it was no big deal, pretending he wasn't gritting his teeth when Sam went over some railroad tracks. Roads in the desert tended to get melted and swimmy, so he wasn't able to just drive straight along and not mess with Dean's leg. No, they had to stop, he needed to get Dean fixed up, like Dean always took care of him. And they needed to talk. Dean would hate every minute of it. Too bad. Dean was the one who'd left, he had some explaining to do.

At San Ysidro, Sam pulled off at a little bend in the road with a gas station and a mom and pop motel that was so old and dusty it looked like part of the desert. There was even a little café, maybe that had the kind of food that Dean loved and--

He parked fast in front of the office, his eyes getting hot, his mouth twisting with fury and his efforts to keep tears of rage at bay. Keeping it down, like Dean was in the seat beside him, white like a sheet, pretending his leg wasn't all fucked up, looking like he wished he were miles away.

"Why are we stopping?" asked Dean, freckles and sweat popping out across his nose.

"Because we need gas, and we need food, and we need all that before we cross the mountains and the desert. Besides," Sam said, taking the keys out of the ignition, carefully not looking at Dean. "I need to look at that leg, and you and I need to talk."

" _No_ ," said Dean. "Can't we just--"

"No," said Sam. He got out and shut the door, then leaned on his elbows in the open driver's side window. "It's _my_ turn now. My turn, my rules, I get to say. Besides, I have the keys and we're in the middle of nowhere, and on that knee you can't run very far. So I win. Get out."

He went into the office where a very nice lady with a squash blossom necklace and a long grey braid checked him in and gave him the hours to the café. It wasn't opened terribly late, she told him, but the food was good, because her husband cooked it. Cold beer? Yes, on tap, but no drunken parties. Her gaze rested on the Impala in the parking lot where Sam had yet to hear any door opening or closing. Obviously because Dean was staying put, but it wasn't obedience, it was the knee.

"No, ma'am," he said, taking the key, which was, remarkably, a real key with a wooden tag that said, Number 7 in painted-on yellow writing. "Just some rest before we go to Monument Valley tomorrow."

"That'll be nice, "she replied, smiling. "You'll have some good weather, then. Blue skies."

Sam slipped the key in his pocket and went out to help Dean, who hurriedly opened the door when he saw Sam coming and was now swinging his legs out, feet in the dust that dappled his black boots. The same boots he'd stolen from that house in Matanzas Beach. In the rain.

Dean tried to stand, hand gripping the edge of the open window, but it was obvious to Sam that the knee wouldn't hold, not without some ice, some aspirin, and a good wrapped bandage. Like Dean'd probably done with Mrs. Clara's ankle. He sighed, and looped his arm around Dean's ribs and pulled him to.

"Shut up," he said. "Just for now."

It was a small miracle, but Dean let him help him hobble to the door of Number 7, a wooden door cleverly painted with outlines of green cactus and black coyotes, but at least, mercifully, there were no Kokopellis dancing around. Dean hated those, just as much as Sam hated it when the coyotes were purple or blue. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key, and unlocked and opened the door. Cool, dark air rushed out at them, and Sam could feel Dean's ribs relaxing against his arm as he sighed soundlessly. Sam flipped on the light. The overhead fan was already spinning, and the smell was dry and mold free. Their boots tracked in dust across the smooth red tile floor. But there were two beds with white sheets, and a new TV, and Sam found himself sighing in tandem.

He walked Dean to one of the beds and made him sit down on it.

"Boots and socks off, pants, too, and I'll get the stuff from the car."

Sam left the door to the room open while he made several trips. First aid box, duffels, his laptop, gun, salt. All the things he now remembered, familiar weights in his hands, the heft and feel of thick cotton, the ragged edge of the wooden box, all like pieces of home that the Impala carried with them. Stuff he'd been leaving in the car because there'd been no Dean to bring them in to. He placed these on the low dresser next to the TV, catching Dean out of the corner of his eye. When he got back with the bucket of ice, Dean was bent far forward, but his knee wouldn't let him undo his boots. But he was trying, because Sam asked him to.

"Hang on," said Sam. He went out to roll up the windows on the car most of the way, and to lock the doors. Then he came back in the room, and closed the door to the outside. Then he bent on the floor in front of Dean. He started unlacing Dean's boots, batting Dean's hands back, not looking up.

"I'm helping," he said, concentrating on the laces, ignoring Dean's irritated breathing. "You can't manage, so I'm helping."

"Sam."

"Just let me, okay?" Now Sam looked up, into Dean's white face and his wide eyes. It wasn't just his knee bothering him, Sam knew that. But first aid first, and then everything else later. "Otherwise your knee will swell up so bad we'll have to cut these jeans off and I know they're your favorites. So just shut the fuck up and let me."

He undid Dean's boots and slid them off, dust scattering to the floor when he pulled off Dean's socks. Dean's feet were filthy, but that couldn't be helped now. Then he motioned for Dean to rise up on his hands so he could take Dean's jeans off. Nothing they'd not done a hundred times before, but halfway through, when Sam's fingers were scraping against the outside of Dean's thighs as he tugged the jeans down, Dean got flushed, his mouth turning down as he hung on to his boxers with one hand. But Sam kept going. He didn't really know what else he could do; Dean's knee needed tending to, regardless of whatever else they'd been through. Like always.

Sam tossed the jeans to one side and got up to bring back a glass of water and three aspirin, which Dean took and swallowed. His throat worked as he tilted his head back, taking the pills the way he'd always done, the way he'd done in the hospital. Efficient and fast, no wasted effort. Sam made himself move to get the ice and wrap it in a towel. It'd be dripping in about five minutes, but it was better than nothing.

"Here," he said. "Put that on there, I'll get the bandage."

It was an old routine, as old as their travels on the road. If you were broken and beat up, you got to sit down and be waited on while the other one fetched and carried. There were no words for this, though, no official rules laid down. Just the pattern of it, criss-crossing the room to get what Dean needed, kneeling down to take Dean's leg and straighten the knee so Dean's foot rested against Sam's thigh. The skin cool and bare under his fingers as he pushed away the ice pack, making Dean hold it, and wrapping the bandage around and around, finally tucking it like Dean would, a little fold to hold it through the night.

He gave the side of Dean's knee, firm and still under the bandage, a gentle pat as he stood up.

"Okay?"

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on his knee, maybe on Sam's fingers as they pulled away.

"I need to pee," Dean said. "And I need to wash up."

"Your knee ought to hold if you don't start dancing around. Here, then," said Sam. He held out his hand, and Dean took it, levering himself up, keeping his leg straight. Sam didn't watch Dean hobble into the bathroom, didn't flinch when Dean closed the door behind him. He listened though, as he gathered up Dean's jeans and socks and boots to put them on the chair near the door. To the sounds of water running, the splashing in the basin, the toilet flushing. More running water.

He took some aspirin himself, and a large gulp of water besides, to try and combat the pounding behind his eyes that wasn't entirely due to the heat outside or the driving through Albuquerque in the bright sun. Then he put the aspirin away, and tossed the plastic cup in the trash. Then he looked at the plastic lining and took the cup out again. He pulled out the lining and filled it with the rest of the ice and then wrapped the whole thing in the towel.

When Dean came out of the bathroom, Sam motioned towards the bed and held up the bag.

"Trash lining," Sam said, knowing Dean would know what he meant.

"Sam," said Dean. His eyes seemed to be avoiding Sam's. Sam couldn't help that. What was done was done; he just needed to understand why.

"Bed, Dean," he said. "Let that leg rest, give yourself a break--"

He stopped. Reminded himself how mad he was. His confusion over Dean growing with each mile he'd chased his brother across the country. But the first aid was over, so it was time.

He pointed at the bed, and then out of sheer kindness, went to Dean's duffle and pulled out a t-shirt and a thin pair of cotton sweat pants. He went over to Dean with the articles in his hand and just looked at Dean. He handed Dean the sweatpants and stood by so Dean could steady himself against Sam as he put them on, holding his left leg out straight.

When Dean took off his shirt, Sam hissed. There were bruises older than the ones Sam had given him that morning. But the cuts were clean; Dean had washed them off in the bathroom. So he handed Dean the shirt and backed off while Dean slipped the shirt on. He held out his hand so Dean could sit back on the bed without jarring his leg, leaning over Dean so he could pull up the clean white pillows for Dean to rest against on the headboard. When he leaned again to hand Dean the ice bag and tug the sheets down, Dean jagged him with an elbow.

"Enough, Sam," he said, snapping like he always did when Sam fussed too much.

So Sam sat on the other bed with a low groan, finally able to lean forward and take off his own boots and dirty socks. Also stolen in Matanzas Beach. In the rain.

He was gritty and dusty himself, could use a hot shower like nobody's business, but this was more important. They had to talk about it, even if Dean didn't want to. And maybe Sam didn't want to either, but there was Dean, looking white, still, eyes dark, avoiding Sam's. Shoulders hunched as if waiting for a blow. The cruelty in waiting would be to Dean, and he didn't deserve that, regardless of anything else.

Sam couldn't put it off any longer, otherwise they were never going to talk about this.

"So," said Sam. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

He made himself look at Dean, who was studiously arranging his ice on his knee. Dean's throat worked like he was trying to swallow. If his throat was as dry as Sam's was, it would feel like sandpaper.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why?" Dean asked back. "Why what?" Belligerent, fighting it.

Sam made himself stay calm. "Why everything?"

Dean looked at him, eyes narrowing, like he used to back at the hospital when he was assessing Sam's state. But he didn't move.

A familiar unsettled feeling from the hospital came over him, the one that had blossomed in his chest every time he was away from Dean, or when Dean pulled back, or said no. It was sending him into a panic, but he didn't want that. He wanted to understand why.

He took a deep breath. "You kept us there--we could have walked out any time, or you could have called Bobby or someone. Anyone. But you didn't. We didn't have to go through any of that, any of what we did. Why would you do that, it was almost like you wanted to stay. You--"

"It was the pills," said Dean, suddenly. He pushed the bag off his knee. When he looked up at Sam, it seemed by force of will alone. "I asked Dr. Logan, and she said you couldn't go cold turkey, 'cause it would be hard on the body. Give you a stroke or send you into a coma. I couldn't risk doing that on the open road, we had to go slow."

Dean's jaw quivered, the tremors slight, but Sam could see it. Sam leaned close, and he could see the flecks in Dean's eyes. Dean's hopeful eyes that, yes, this was the reason, the one that Sam would accept and then shut up and then go away. Very far away where Dean would never have to think about him again. Sam wasn't having any of it.

Not leaning back, not moving away, he took a deep breath. "I guess I figured that out for myself, Dean," he said. "But what about everything else?" Then, because it was important, Sam cleared his throat and clarified what he meant. "We were all tied up with each other, and that's not new but--we had relations--"

It sounded so much like an old lady that he stopped, and Dean stopped him by laughing in his throat, hard, like he didn't want to, but because Sam was so ridiculous. Sam stood up, feeling his eyes get hot, and the blood started thumping behind them. He loomed over Dean, who pulled against the headboard, not moving away, but making himself small.

"You let me do anything I wanted, Dean, have anything I wanted, including you. You never said no, you never drew the line, you knew you were my brother, and yet you went ahead and--"

"I tried to say, no, Sam, but--"

"But _nothing_." Now Sam was pointing, jabbing his finger into Dean's shoulder, making Dean wince. He ignored the darkness in Dean's eyes, the screaming he saw there. He couldn't let it stop him. "You were in your right mind, _you_ knew. And yet you _let_ me. I didn't know who the hell I was, and yet you let me. You let me kiss you and jack you off and suck your cock, and then you put your head in the pillow so I could fuck you. You, Dean. _You_." He shoved Dean hard enough so that the headboard clonked against the wall, and Dean's head smacked into he plaster.

"I never fucked you," said Dean, not rubbing his head. He said it like a mantra. His chest was heaving like he was trying to breath underwater, his hands fists along his legs. "Never."

This clicked into Sam's brain so sharp, everything else seemed muffled in comparison. Maybe Dean had wanted to. "Then what the fuck happened?"

"I screwed up," said Dean. His voice cracked, mouth open as he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of both hands. When he took his hands away, his face looked ragged, eyes wet and red-rimmed, as though he'd been crying, even though he hadn't. "I screwed up and left us there too long--" The words rose from his throat like jagged-edged blades. "I kept you there, wanting you to be okay when we left, and I left it too long. I let them fuck you up, and I let me--"

Dean turned away and grabbed for the far edge of the bed, away from Sam. He pulled himself and tried to move too fast, jarring his leg as he swung it to the ground. Sam moved and reached across Dean's bed, trying to grab Dean's arm. Dean jerked his arm out of the way and tried to stand, but his knee gave way and he sank unsteadily against the headboard on the far side of the bed. Too far away even for Sam's reach.

Dean's mouth twisted, like he was trying to hold back something ugly. But his hand was on his knee, shaking, and Sam made himself be still, giving Dean enough room. Waiting till he stopped, till some of the whiteness faded from his face.

Dean pressed back against the headboard like it was his last salvation, putting both legs back on the bed. With his hands gripping the counterpane, he looked at Sam. Swallowed hard. "It's my fault," he said. "You didn't know who you were and I did."

Dean was shaking so hard the headboard knocked into the wall again, and his face was as white as iced paper. So white his eyes were blazing, and Sam knew that they, that _he_ , had to fix this. Otherwise, Dean was going to carry this around, letting it eat at him until one day he would take it as an act of contrition to step into the path of a raging ghost, or a speeding train, or an 18-wheeler along one of those highways he loved so much.

It was wrong. All of it had been wrong. As to who was to blame, he'd been so sure it'd had been Dean's fault. Now he wasn't so sure.

Without moving, Sam said, "You were fucked up, too, Dean. Mental hospitals don't make people sane, they just keep the crazies at bay."

"That's no excuse," said Dean, his jaw coming forward like he was going to take a bite out of Sam. "None, because I knew and you didn't, and you can't--"

"I can," said Sam, interrupting him. "And I have to. You kept saying no and I kept pushing and you--" He stopped, watching Dean wince, his eyes darken, starting to move off the bed again. He'd fall and then his knee would be even more fucked up than ever. But that wasn't it, that wasn't what mattered. Knees would mend. Dean, on the inside, was working towards cracking up.

Sam held up for his hand so that Dean would know Sam wasn't coming at him. Dean settled back, still tense.

"We both did it, okay?" said Sam. "We were both there."

Sam took a heaving breath and stood up to move to the foot of the bed that Dean was on. He knew it didn't really make it any better for Dean; after all he was still standing there. Looming. So he turned away and went to open the door, and stared out at the parking lot and the blazing desert scrub land beyond. A single car passed on the two-lane highway, and Sam listened to the engine and the hum of the tires, and thought about how so much of their lives could be recounted by motel room doorways just like this one. _Where are we, Dad? I don't know, look out the door._

He turned his head to look at Dean. Watched Dean lift his face as he felt Sam looking at him. Sam crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb and let the hot air from the outside mix with the cool air from the room. Waited for Dean. Like Dean would wait for him.

"I think--" started Dean. His mouth worked, but he didn't take his eyes from Sam's. "It started out because Dr. Logan said that helping you would help me. Remember her theory?"

Sam nodded, slowly.

"It worked both ways, right? And when--that one time--you were there when I came back--"

Dean stopped and Sam knew why. It was hard to think about how much power the hospital had, power to drag you away to a small, tiled room, to take off all your clothes and pump you full of something to keep you still. And then to wrap you tightly in damp sheets and hose you down with icy cold water because the hospital decided that it would help keep you calm, and maybe even teach you a lesson about how to control violent impulses. When all it taught you was that it didn't matter how miserable it got or how scared you were, no one would rescue you from the dark.

"The touching helped," said Dean, and Sam swallowed hard at the fist that rose in his throat. Dean was still talking, was telling the truth, by God, and Sam would rather rip out his own tongue than interrupt him. "It helped me, so I wanted to help you, and that was my game plan. Which got out of control. Because it turned into--Anyway. So that's all. That's how I fucked up."

Sam could see how it had been for Dean, as clear as if Dean had drawn him a picture. Dean had been on meds too, in a coma for a week, according to Dr. Logan. He had come out of his djinn induced amnesia, and had found Sam as fast as he'd been able. Which had been pretty fast, considering everyone, including Dean, had been under the impression that his brother was dead. That was like a little bit of magic, right there. And then, with Dr. Logan's experiment in place, Dean had taken control of everything, or tried to. Making a plan to get them off their meds, finding a way out of the hospital, finding paperclips, for Christ's sake--

He stopped himself, because the mystery of that was the least of his concerns. The fan spun overhead and the cool air of the room swept across his skin. Nice and cool. Appropriately cool. Not like in the hospital, where the chill of the air was constant, like a punishment for something you'd not even done yet.

He had pushed up to Dean, climbed into Dean's bed for warmth, and then there'd been kisses. And then there'd been more. He'd asked Dean if they could go further, he remembered thinking that Dean was everything good. Remembered thinking about Randy and his obsession with fucking. How he'd coaxed and coaxed, and finally, after Dean had laid down the law, _no way_ , Then Sam had flipped out, and Dean had relented. But it had been Sam doing the fucking. Not Dean.

"This is not all your fault," Sam said.

Dean sucked in his lips, and Sam could see him warring with it. It would be easier if he blew it off, for both of them. But Dean being Dean, he was going to see this through, even if it looked like it was killing him.

"Being with you--helped," Dean said. Now he looked down, at his hands now as he rubbed his knee slowly. "Kept you calm, kept me calm. Kept us calm because it was like a two way street. Giving and receiving. Better than group therapy. Better than anything."

Now that made sense. They'd been orphans of the storm, it felt like, now, looking back. And with only each other to cling to, to keep warm by, it made a kind of twisted sense.

"I couldn't stop it," said Dean. "You or me. In there. Everything was muffled, and it was this whole other world. What I was doing, what I was letting--it made sense. In there. Even though I knew that out here, it wouldn't. And it doesn't."

"You did the best you could," said Sam. He wished he didn't still sound like he was blaming Dean for everything. So he closed the door, shutting out the bright light, leaving the room feeling a little bit darker, and maybe safer, for the seconds it would take their eyes to adjust to the darkness. "You saved us both, Dean, you got us out of there right under Henriksen's nose, and no one, and I mean no one, could have done any better."

"Doesn't feel like it," said Dean, low. As his eyes adjusted, Sam watched him push down into the bed until his head hit the pillow. "But it was the best I could come up with, okay?

"For what it's worth," said Sam to Dean's outline. "I don't blame you. For any of it. In fact--"

"Sam."

"Yes?"

"Do you think I wanted this? Fuck, that's why I left."

Sam blinked.

"Just go take a shower or take a hike or whatever. Just leave me alone now. Just for until--just leave me alone, okay?"

Dean had been on the road for weeks, constantly on the move. He'd worn himself out running. Moving west, trying to get away from Sam. But it was like Dean had hit him, right in the chest, where it rang empty and hollow as he watched Dean roll away to face the wall.

"Fine." Sam swung open the door with force. "But I'm going to be right outside. I mean it, Dean. You try to leave and I will mess up your other leg."

"Great," said Dean, his grunt muffled by the pillow. "I'm your prisoner now, so just get the fuck out."

Sam let himself out of the room, kicking the door shut behind him. He sat on the little bench against the wall in the shade and stared out at the desert, and the dusty road. And just let Dean be.

He got it, at least most of it. The pills, and how Dean had to be careful, taking them both off the meds, keeping them safe, not letting anyone find out. He must have lost his mind every time Sam was out of sight, because he couldn't know if an orderly or doctor might order some tests and find out, and take Sam away. That made sense. As did Dean's reluctance to let any one see him, and especially Sam, it seemed, in that state. Not even Bobby, because Dean had been weak and Sam weaker, and there was no way that Dean would want that to get out to any hunters. And when Henriksen had shown up, it must have killed Dean to stay still, to not start running then and there. But he'd waited. For Sam, and coaxed him into being brave, just by being brave himself.

As for him and Dean, the two of them beneath the sheets, sharing the darkness, that also made sense. The trust that Dean had to build to take Sam away with him had been necessary in Dean's mind, according to Dean. But there seemed more than that, something open ended that Dean's answers seemed to satisfy but didn't. Sam's mind went to Dean in the hotel in Quincy, how he'd turned away and tried to get Sam to stop, and _no_ , he didn't want to share a shower, and his whole attitude of reluctance that Sam had simply ignored. Dean had known who they were, had struggled with it and finally given in. Ostensibly because Sam wanted it, that was always the way, Sam's needs got met and Dean's needs got shelved for later. Or never.

And then there'd been the djinn, who'd started the whole mess, and their off-kilter sojourn in the mental institution. The djinn had given Dean the perfect dream to keep him still and happy for the djinn to feed off of. But in spite of having exactly what he'd thought he'd wanted in that other world, with no hunting and no strife, Dean had wanted to come back. Had killed himself to come back, and that, it seemed, because he and that other Sam had never--what. Gotten along? Shared anything? Been like real brothers? Been close?

Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes and chewed on his thumb and stared at the line of the horizon, the brightness of the desert and the scrub over the low hills shining under the blue, the far edge of it turning to dark because the sun was going down. It would get cooler then, maybe a breeze would kick up. They could go eat at the little café, have a cool beer under the stars, and he found his eyes were prickling, hot, and he blinked it away. It wasn't just the meal or the beer, it was what it represented, if they could get there, to that moment, there could be others like it. Where they shared a meal and the time, and looked at each other with promises in their eyes, saving it for later. For the darkness of a room that wouldn't judge or turn its head away, but would take them with wide, still arms and let them be.

Did he want that, then? It was one thing to accept what happened, to understand the reasons why. It was another to pursue it, to make Dean answer him, his final question, to tell Dean what he wanted. To see if Dean wanted it, too.

If Dean said no--

That would be hard, but they would have to stay together. Sam knew he couldn't bear anything else. Being apart for a few weeks had been hard enough, he couldn't exist that way forever. So Dean would just have to stay, and Sam would have to convince him that it was okay.

But if Dean said yes--

Sam's heart exploded in his chest, and he knew then that was what he wanted. He scrubbed at his eyes and tasted the dry desert air in his mouth, hot tears taking the salt out of him. He was thirsty, he wanted water, he wanted Dean. But he couldn't make Dean say yes, he would never do that, even when he liked it when Sam made him--

He took a deep breath and settled his hands in his lap to stare at the line of dark blue beyond the low, sandy ridge, becoming smudged to purple, with a blaze of pink across the rocks. In a land where it never seemed to rain, where the hot sun stroked the land day after day, things still grew, lush and green in spite of the lack of water. And a cool breeze stirred the hair where it stuck to his hot forehead, touching his brow, the side of his face.

He couldn't let himself hope, of course, because that would make him too eager and might freak Dean out. If he could stay calm, if he could find a way to get through to Dean, it might be like this always, a constant surprise, like the sweet smell of something he couldn't name, something insistent and eager, like a coming rain. Warm and bright and welcome across a desert sky.

 

**Chapter 28**

Dean rolled to his back, wincing as he moved his knee too fast. It had stiffened up on him while he slept, and now his toes were caught in the blanket. Sam was sitting on the other bed, bare footed, elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands. Waiting. Watching Dean while he slept. Dean's chest tightened, even if Sam's face didn't tell him anything, Sam had been given time to think and now had come back for more. He'd be more dangerous because he'd had time to focus.

There was a bundled towel by Dean's leg that hadn't been there before, and when he lifted it, the heft and crinkle told him it was more ice freshly wrapped in plastic in the towel. For his leg. He put it gently on the top of his knee, sighing as the cold soaked into the ache. Some more aspirin might also be a good idea, but Dean had a feeling that there was a huge and difficult conversation coming, blocking his way between now and anything else, including the rest of his life.

"Thanks," he said.

Sam only nodded.

He looked Sam in the eye and grit his teeth, knowing that he could write it off as pain, and not this sudden stabbing fear that whatever Sam had on his mind would change them forever.

Sam looked back at him, steadily, not a muscle moving in his face, his eyes glinting a little, but that was the overhead lights, shimmering beneath the slowly turning fan.

"I only have one question for you, Dean," he said.

Dean gathered his breath and let it sit in his chest, trying to ease the ache before letting it go in one long stream. "Yeah?"

"Why did you leave? Why did you leave like that?"

"I told you why," said Dean, confused. He worked his jaw, getting pissed, knowing it wouldn't help.

"No, you didn't," said Sam. "You told me about the pills, which I'd already figured out. And you told me why you let us have sex. But you didn't tell me why you left me."

"I left you the keys, the money, Bobby's number--"

"Oh, like he was going to call someone he didn't know. Someone who wasn't you."

Dean stared at the ceiling. His heart was thudding and he wanted to sit up so he could breathe, or back up, or move. But his head was heavy in the pillow, his hands fists at his sides and his knee ached like it was going to break in two. "You say _he_ , like he was somebody else."

Sam seemed to think about this, and Dean forced himself not to look, making himself wait while Sam ran this around in his brain and stirred and poked, trying to make sense of it. Dean hoped he could, because he sure as hell couldn't. But there was a truth there, the question of who that Sam had been and who this Sam was. Dean'd often thought of it that way, _that_ Sam and _that_ Dean, who worked in the yard and ate in the dining hall and tumbled under the sheets. And _this_ Sam, mad enough to be thinking sharp and straight and clear, and _this_ Dean--

"He _was_ somebody else," said Sam, finally. "You didn't know I was going to get my memory back, so you left us both high and dry." Dean could hear him try to breathe slow, but he could also almost hear the clicking in Sam's brain. "You were the only one who knew who we were."

"Thanks, Sam, 'cause I _so_ didn't know that."

"So what were you afraid of?" Sam's voice came out reasonable, but Dean knew that tone, the one that said Sam was just building his argument, saving the killing blow for when you least expected it. "That Sam did everything you wanted," Sam continued. "He was pliable, and obedient, only looking to you for you to tell him what to do--is that why you had sex with him?"

"Shut up, Sam." Rage made Dean sit up, his knee screaming, but he had to move, up or down or sideways, just to keep from shaking. "That wasn't it and you _know_ it."

He tried to glare at Sam, but Sam's head tipped to one side, in that way that told Dean without words that Sam felt he had everything on his side and was unafraid to show it. Or deal with what would happen after he said it out loud. "So," said Sam. "Which Sam were you leaving, the Sam that was or the Sam that was going to be? And why?"

Dean's heart stopped, right in his chest, like someone had slammed down on it with a huge fist. The back of his neck was sweaty and the bag of ice slipped off his knee, nestling between his legs like a cold secret. Sam had him in his sights, eyes blazing, holding perfectly still, not moving towards or away, but there, like an invisible wall between Dean and everything else. Nothing else could exist till he got past Sam.

But then Sam shifted a little, still staying where he was, but relaxing his shoulders, still looking at Dean, but with his head lowered. Looking up at Dean through the hair that had fallen over his eyes. Eyes wide and soft. Mouth a little open, expectant. Looking, so much like, exactly like _that_ Sam, Sam in the hospital. Who looked to Dean to learn how to breathe, and stand up, and be brave. The Sam who had said _I love you, Dean_.

Dean felt heat shifting over him in waves, skin prickling up, sweat combing through his hair, down his scalp. And still Sam looked like that Sam, and this Sam all at once. Cool as a desert pool, still and quiet, drawing Dean too him, even though he'd not moved a muscle.

"What would you say to _that_ Sam," asked Sam now, "if he were here instead of me?"

That broke Dean, right there, his heart slicing in two, the feeling of missing that, sharp. He missed Sam so much. What they'd had, the connection between the two of them, joining forces against the hospital, the trust building as they lay together in the dark, Sam taking half and half and half, because Dean had said so. Working at the speed puzzles, his brow furrowed in confusion, owning not a single memory of all the years they'd shared, but believing. Following Dean everywhere, even out beneath the big, open, pouring-with-rain sky. Into the dark, cold night, jumping on trains, jumping _off_ them, for Christ's sake, just because Dean had said to.

The sex was only part of it, he'd give up the sex for everything else, because he'd screwed up the whole thing so badly, he'd never have Sam trusting him like that, turning to him, _only_ to him because everything else, everyone else, could go to hell for Sam, as long as he had Dean with him. Dean knew he'd give anything to get back to that feeling and in that place in Sam's heart. But he hadn't the slightest chance in hell, having screwed it up again and again and again, breaking everything, messing up every chance to do the right thing, and now Sam would never trust him again. And why should he.

Dean braced himself on his arms, and hung his head. His jaw worked, his eyes hot, his throat was closing up and in a minute he was going to lose it, big time. And then Sam would know how Dean felt, how Dean had done what he'd done because he'd _wanted_ it, and then Sam would walk out that door, and Dean would never, ever see him again. Then Dean would walk out into the desert, like he'd thought about before. Just walk out into the desert and die.

Dean felt Sam get up, but he concentrated on focusing on the sheet, rucked between his thighs, the ice melting against him. If Sam touched him, he'd scream. Then he watched as his tears fell in three huge plops on the plastic bag. Loudly. Stupid, fucking--

"I didn't want you to hate me," said Dean, rushing his words, gulping. "I didn't want you to find out--"

Sam's voice came to him across the gentle air, moved by the slow fan. Soft. "You loved that Sam, didn't you."

 

Dean's chest heaved, even though he tried to still it, blinking back his tears, his mouth moving as though it wanted to say it. _Sam_.

Now Sam was standing beside the bed, a dark line out of the corner of Dean's eyes. In the cool of the room, he could smell Sam's sweat, the dust of the desert, a touch of rain easing in beneath the door. He felt Sam take a breath.

And then Sam said, "It was horrible. I woke up and you weren't there. I was all alone, and I thought you didn't want me any more."

Which meant that Sam wanted--

"I _shouldn't_ want you any more." The words came out before Dean could stop them, exploding up from his gut, ripping through him, out of his mouth. Leaving an echo of silence in the room, as the fan spun overhead.

He heard Sam laugh, low in his throat. Sam got up and went to the window, all legs and surety. He pulled the curtains all the way closed so there was only the slightest bit of light coming through. He turned out all the lights, so it would be dark, like it used to be in the hospital, dark and cool, with a streak of light coming in through the space between the curtains.

Then he went to the bathroom and stood there looking at Dean. "So much of our lives are lies, can't we just tell the truth this one time? Because, remember, I am that Sam, right here, right now."

Dean was starting to feel dizzy, mouth open, unable to blink or look away as Sam paused, just about to turn out the bathroom light. Everything he wanted to say was in his chest, exploding out, but unable to get past lips that had gone numb, his mouth unable to work.

Then Sam smiled at him, love sparking there. "You don't have to say it, Dean. I can see it in your eyes. But then, I always could."

The light went off, and with the cool, moving air, dark except for the slice of light, it might be--could be-- just like the hospital, at night, when the chime had gone off and the lights went off on their own because someone else controlled every moment of their lives. But here, in this room, they controlled it, him and Sam. And Sam had said--

Sam came back to the bed, standing very still. Dean could feel him there, warm and still and careful, like Dean was the one who needed it, the gentleness, the slowness. Giving him the time for his heart to slow down, and the sweat to cool on the back of his neck.

"Do I have your permission?"

It took him a minute to realize that Sam was actually talking to him, asking him a question that was real and not just an echo, a memory of that time in the hospital, when after it had really, really, _really_ been Dean's fault that Sam had gone into Treatment, he'd wanted to make it up to Sam. Yes, and get them back on track so that Sam would go with him when he went, but also to have that with Sam, that time between them that nothing, not even Sam's hating him, could take away.

Dean could keep running, but Sam would keep chasing him. That wasn't why he would stop running, it would be because he wanted to.

Sam seemed to laugh a little then, breathy in the dark air. "I'll bet our kisses would taste the same as they did in the hospital. Want to see?"

Dean thought of the window in the room they'd shared, high up in the wall, and how the moon seemed to come through and lit up their bed, silver and soft, and knew that he did. He wanted Sam, and he wanted this, and he wanted it forever. He wanted to feel Sam's touches along his back, on his skin, worshipful and soaking into him, all over, filling him up from the inside, reaching all those empty, blank spaces that the world had left behind. And Sam wanted him, so it was okay. All of it.

_Okay, okay._

He reached up and grabbed the back of Sam's neck with his hand to pull his head down, full of fierce joy and desire and wanting. This. Sam. Everything. _Always_.

And then he kissed Sam hard, right on the mouth. Felt Sam smile against him, and as Sam tipped his head to kiss him back, his hair brushed against Dean's skin, full of Sam's scent, sweet and silky.

Then Sam pulled away, and Dean's heart hammered as Sam slid into the bed next to him, the sheets felt cool, like a blessing, beneath Dean's hands. Outside the window, he could hear the roar of the highway, maybe even a coyote in the distance, till the air conditioner kicked on and the white noise filled the room. Low, a like a hum of a sigh in the distance.

"Before I was big, I was little," said Sam, almost conversationally as he tried to adjust himself and his long length next to Dean.

Dean smiled, and, shaking, pulled Sam to him so he could smile into Sam's hair and inhale the sweat that pushed through his skin, a little dizzy again, stomach rolling, scared. But his heart was flying out into the blue, blue, wide, big, huge enormous sky that would always be the right size. Because Sam would be there. With him.

Sam butted the top of his head into Dean's jaw as his arms circled Dean's waist, pulling himself close, his body one long, familiar line against Dean's. Dean knew he could die right then but that would be okay, because he had this. He had _this_.

And then Sam kissed his skin, brushing his eyelashes like more kisses. "You never," said Sam, whispering into his neck. "You always said--but you wanna? I think it's my turn for you to be on top. That's fair."

Dean wanted to laugh then, it felt good to think of it, Sam eager, wanting him. That he was safe now, safe with Sam in his arms. That he knew everything and still wanted to be there. Dean cleared his throat. "Would I, could I, Sam-I-Am," said Dean, "but, uh--"

Sam shifted on the bed, just bumping Dean's thigh with his. He reached over Dean's legs, and touched the bandage under the sweat pants on Dean's left knee, his fingers trailing.

"I'll be careful," Sam said.

"Yeah," said Dean, feeling breathless. His heart was racing still, wanting this, his cock stirring to life, almost unable to believe it, except for the reality of Sam, right there in the bed beside him.

Sam bent closer and Dean found Sam's mouth in the dark, open and sweet, the taste of Sam rushing through him, making him feel, for a second, that they were in that long, narrow bed, under the high bank of windows. In the moonlight, where Sam had teased Dean's clothes off, and the heat of their bodies was all that kept them warm in the cool air.

"Hurry," said Sam. "Before you change your mind."

"No," said Dean. "No. Not ever. Not--" He paused, remembering what he'd said in the hospital. "Not in a million years."

Sam pulled away now, on his knees next to Dean, his small laugh muffled as he tugged on Dean's shirt and pulled it off, tossing it on the other bed. Then slower, careful, he tugged Dean's boxers and sweat pants down, past the bandage on his legs without touching Dean once, his breath on Dean's thighs, and Dean's tight breath eased in his throat. Then Sam got off the bed, and Dean could hear him taking off his own clothes.

"We have to do it this way," said Sam as he climbed on the bed, and straddled Dean, skin to skin, the silky curve of Sam's backside warm against Dean's thighs.

"You ever--" Dean couldn't quite finish his sentence, though he liked the dense weight of Sam above him in the dark. Holding him down, holding him true to gravity.

"To, but not from," said Sam, almost snickering. His palms covered Dean's shoulders as if he meant to push Dean into the mattress, even though he wasn't. "I've made a girl howl a time or two, though you tend to yip."

"Do not," said Dean, shifting. His knee protested, so he made himself be still, hands on Sam's hips, feeling the silky weight of Sam's balls velvet on his thighs, the dense, heavy feel of Sam's cock nestled next to his own.

"Yip, yip," said Sam, now laughing outright. He bent close to kiss Dean on the mouth, sweeping his tongue in, and Dean's whole body jumped as though Sam had run a sudden electric current through him. He soaked it in, his heart jackhammering through his spine. "Yip," Sam said again, nipping Dean's mouth and then licking the spot.

Dean's cock was starting to come to attention, as if it finally realized what Sam was offering, the position Sam was in, what it meant--and it was still okay, because Sam had asked, he wanted it, and Dean had said yes.

_Okay, okay._

"Do we have anything?" he asked, breathless.

"Just spit and patience," said Sam, blithe, trusting Dean.

Nothing they didn't have the last time, but though he had a lot of the one, he didn't have a lot of the other.

He was hard, how, his cock pressing up against his belly, feeling like it could start pumping at any moment, and hang the consequences. He was about to stick his fingers in his mouth to moisten them, then changed his mind. Reaching, he placed his thumb near Sam's mouth.

"Open."

Sam opened his mouth, sucking Dean's fingers in, hard and fast. Dean's cock gave a thump.

"Easy now," he said, his heart racing, even though he wanted Sam to hurry.

The slide of Sam's tongue against the root of his fingers was slick, his stomach was doing double time, holding on, holding it in as Sam's tongue swirled round and round. Then Dean his fingers out and grabbed Sam's neck to pull him down.

"You're too far away," he said, whispering.

Sam stayed close as though he agreed, tucking low into Dean's neck, and shifting his weight. He was moving towards the side of Dean's bad knee, and just as Dean was tightening up to either push Sam off or move out of the way, Sam halted, mid air, bracing himself with his legs. Then he lowered himself slowly, inches to spare as he settled into the mattress.

"Now you can do me," said Sam, licking the curve of Dean's chest.

Dean curved his arm around Sam, reaching between the sprawl of Sam's legs, his fingers up between Sam's thighs. He pushed till his fingers met with the heat of Sam's body, pressing against the flesh behind his balls. He moved his fingers up. Pushed a little way in with one finger, and heard Sam gasp. He knew the feeling, knew what Sam would want. Tried not to hurry. Pressed his finger into the hot, narrow space in Sam's body, and pulled out a little. When he pushed back in, he felt the muscles give, and heard Sam whimper.

Dean paused to bend and press a kiss to the side of Sam's neck. "So good, so good, you see."

He felt Sam shake, felt it inside and out. "Stop," said Sam. "Stop making me laugh."

This made him smile as he slipped in another finger and pushed. Pushed wide, made Sam wiggle against him, felt the shudder beneath him, felt Sam's back grow slick under his arm. His heart was thumping too.

When he got a third finger in is when Sam groaned, pulling away and then pushing back. The back of his neck was soaking as Dean reached up to stroke it, pulling his fingers out, and pushing against Sam. He spread his fingers and narrowed them, out and back, out and back, till Sam's muscles relaxed around him.

"'kay?"

"Yeah," said Sam, his voice breathless like he'd been running.

"Move up, now."

Sighing, Sam sat back up, his knees into the bed, on either side of Dean's hips. Dean ran his hands along Sam's back. He was hard, felt like he could pound through cement and Sam was slick, tense almost, hovering above him, waiting. It took him a second to realize that he couldn't do what his body wanted, to flip Sam down into the bed and push in, nice and slow and the whole Tab A, Slot B mechanics of it stalled his brain. His knee wouldn't take it, he'd be screaming before he got in the first thrust. He put his hands on Sam's hips and looked up, seeing Sam in the half dark, hearing Sam's slightly rattled breathing.

"Hey," said Sam. "What's wrong?" Sam's hands splayed across his chest, and Dean knew that Sam could feel the hard, confused chugging of his heart.

"I don't--" Dean stopped to swallow. "You have to--"

Now Sam's hands moved down to Dean's cock, which had started to soften against his hip. His fingers circled around it, fiddling, teasing, while he thought it out and translated what Dean couldn't bring himself to say.

"I see," said Sam. "That's easy." He bent close, now, a soft kiss on Dean's mouth. "But then, doing anything for you is easy."

There it was again, that adoration, pushing through every word, every gesture Sam made, and now his hands stroked Dean's chest, flaring up, spreading warmth as if in worship. Dean felt his jaw work and his eyes grow hot, and he swallowed and swallowed again, and while the feeling didn't go away, it settled back down, ready to spring out when he wasn't watching.

Sam scooted back and tipped forward, sucking Dean's cock into his mouth with a sudden purpose that jagged the air from Dean's chest. Sam's tongue curled around and around, sweeping up and down while his throat sucked Dean down, making him hard in the moistness of Sam's mouth. Then he sat back up, and rising up on his heels, shifted forward so Dean could push in. He went slow, pushing into Sam, and pausing, taking his time, instead of jamming himself in like he wanted to. Held on to Sam's thighs, and twitched his hips up and up, a little bit each time, Sam sighing above him, as Sam's legs became sweaty beneath Dean's palms.

Dean felt the muscles inside Sam give and he slipped all they way, snug up against Sam, thigh to thigh, and Sam gave a sound of surprise. Sam shuddered, and dipped his head, a shadow in the dark, resting his knees now on the mattress, and Dean realized he was all the way in, hilted against Sam's body, inside of Sam--

"Okay, okay." He pushed his hips up, blood pounding through his cock, the tight space pulling him in, the back of Sam's thighs, the hair there distracting him, and Sam's low sound, a groan from deep in his gut.

"Uh-huh," said Dean. "I know just what you mean."

"God, Dean." Sam shook, his voice ragged. "God." Then he took a breath. "For God's sake, _push_ , damnit."

Dean pushed, flexing, feeling himself rise into Sam, the heat of Sam's body scorching him, and the light inside of him growing, a flickering live thing as he pressed up and sank down, and again, rocking up in time with his heart, in, in, then pulling out, pushing in, feeling Sam rock with him, feeling Sam's thighs trembling. Realized the trembles were matching his own.

His breath was ragged in his chest, and he swore that he was going to get his knee better, and then he would take Sam like he meant to, like he wanted to--and he pushed in and in, felt Sam grinding down, twisting his hips with a little shimmy that seemed to touch a button deep within Dean's spine. A hush of breath as Dean pumped in and out, faster, thighs aching, then Sam arched a bit, tipping his head back so his eyes looked down at Dean from beneath a lock of dark hair. A glimmer, gathering the light from somewhere, and Dean pushed in as his cock pulsed, heat screaming up from his spine in a mindless arrow that he couldn't stop, even if he wanted to. His hands slipping on Sam's ribs, sweat-slick, and the jerk of Sam's hips above him as he came, regret mixing with the joy as a snap of black covered his brain, and then filled it with the sweet, sweet smell of Sam's hair as Sam leaned forward so he could bury his nose in it.

"Oh," he said, muffled, as Sam slipped off him, they were both so hot, and he collapsed in the sheets next to Dean, as Dean's heart thumped. "I meant that to go--what about you?"

"Next time," said Sam. Then he twisted to face Dean, his legs sprawling, the heat banking off of him. Dean wished he could see Sam's face in the darkness, see the relaxed curve of his mouth, and kissed him on the forehead, stroked the hair back from Sam's face. "Yeah?"

There was a small silence as Dean pulled his legs together to unravel them from Sam's, but he didn't go far. Instead he moved in close, basking for a moment. He had this, and he wanted to keep it, even though it was strange, so strange. Sam's hand was petting his arm, stroking him in that way he had, not absently, but if he could see Sam's eyes, he knew what would be there. In the morning. He would see it in the morning.

"Will you stay?" asked Sam. "Stay with me?"

He moved to kiss Sam, tasting the sweat, and some salt. Sam. With his wide sweet mouth and careful hands. Shaking as they petted him. He should never make Sam wait.

"You're my Sam," he said, making his voice slow and clear. "My Sam."

He turned on his side so he could reach between Sam's legs, even though Sam had said _next time,_ there was no reason for it. Not when Dean's hands still worked, not while he had a breath left in his body. He picked up Sam's sweat as he swept his palm along Sam's thigh, and used it to slick Sam's cock, moving up and down slowly, listening to Sam gasp under his breath, feeling Sam's hips push towards him. Wanting more, wanting Dean's hand on him, and Dean moved up and down, moving a little faster each time, thinking mildly how the angle of his wrist was backwards in that he was moving out rather than in, but the motion was still the same.

And Sam seemed to like the little flip he did with the edge of his thumb over the crown of Sam's cock, flip and twist and then back down, sliding faster each time. Hearing Sam's breath grow faster, feeling the pulse of Sam's cock as it twitched and then jerked. Sam's gasp as he came, long hot strings over Dean's fingers as he fell back into the pillow, sprawling everywhere, barely missing Dean's knee, but seeming to remember in time, his hips settled back as Dean wiped his hand on Sam's thigh.

He kissed Sam on the side of his forehead, almost too tired to move any further, but this seemed to satisfy Sam. He ducked his head low and as he let his hand trail down Dean's ribs, along his hip, sighing. Pushed down till he could push under Dean's chin, his hair in Dean's mouth, tickling the underside of his jaw. It was almost too hot, but the air conditioner kicked on again, maybe it had before and he'd not heard it; the room would be cooler in a minute or two. Sam could set himself on fire and Dean wouldn't push him away. Couldn't. He had found a place there, Sam pressed up against him, his arms hooking back behind Sam, settling around his waist. He thought about tugging the sheets up, when Sam reached down and did that, the cool cotton sifting over them like a small breeze.

"Sleep now, Sam-I-am," he said, rubbing his thumb along one of Sam's ribs.

Sam huffed, half asleep through the snort, shifting on the pillow, pressing down, his head growing heavy against Dean's shoulder, his legs carefully away from Dean's bad knee. It was a good weight. It would hold Dean down, carry him into sleep. Keep him safe in the dark. His throat ached like it shouldn't, because the backs of his eyes were hot, and he felt close to saying it, even as Sam was falling asleep. He kissed the top of Sam's head, hard, three times, catching the top of Sam's forehead, still damp with heat. Felt the sleepy press of Sam's mouth against his throat, and a low sound that he couldn't quite make out, but understood anyway.

 

**Chapter 29**

Dean woke up and sat up, mindful of his knee, his mind blurry with sleep, not really thinking. The lights were off, but he could feel the fan slowly spinning overhead. He got up to hobble to the bathroom. Of course, his knee still hurt, but nothing else did, not his heart, not his gut, and he felt the smile bubble up as he looked in the direction where Sam was still sleeping in the dark.

He turned on the light in the bathroom, and stripped his bandage, bending to unroll it from his leg, rolling it back up as he went. He would take a shower and then get Sam to help him put it back on and then maybe they could eat. Hopefully the food at the café would be good, or maybe that wouldn't matter. When he got this hungry, he could eat a bowl of mud and call it fine.

The shower helped, the hot water making his skin feel less sticky and his brain less scattered. Of course they were going to be okay, they could go on like this, together, and keep hunting, and if they had some trouble remembering why this was good or remembering who had almost fucked them both up (Dean), they would work it through. Like they had, like they always would. His heart felt full and good, and though it might be dangerous to be that fucking happy, he had it _now_ , and he'd always lived in the moment, so that was okay.

After he dried off, he took some more aspirin, washing the pills down with water cupped in his hand at the sink. Then he gave himself a shave in the foggy mirror, and brushed his teeth. By the time he put a clean t-shirt and boxers on, he felt like a new man. He carried his dirty clothes and the bandage out into the cool, tiled room, where Sam was sitting up, rubbing his eyes with one hand, hair spilling across his neck.

"Hey," said Dean. "Help me with this?"

Sam got up and pulled on his boxers without a word, still sleepy as he turned on the lights, blinking, trying to focus on the task Dean had asked of him. He took the bandage and motioned to the bed. Like always, because the bed made it easier to wind the bandage from side to side without knocking into chair handles. Sam knelt down, frowning at his task, but that wasn't unusual, he did that when he concentrated. There was only the tiniest shake to his hands as he pulled Dean's now clean foot to rest on his thigh and began to wind the bandage around Dean's bare leg.

"You want it tight?" Sam asked at one point, looking up through his bangs.

"Yeah, a little," said Dean. "Sleeping tight, I'm not going to try and win any races with it."

With a little grunt in his throat, Sam nodded and kept winding until he was finished. Then he took the time to make the little fold at the end that would keep the bandage in place. Like Dean had taught him years ago, when the little poky things went off the market and had always been too much hassle anyway. "There's that café," Sam said, standing up and moving back. "You hungry?"

"I could eat my own arm," said Dean.

He knew Sam was being extra casual, not looking at him, not making a big deal out of it, but distancing himself just the same, as if he were protecting Dean. And Dean didn't want that, so he went over to Sam and put his hand on Sam's arm and let it stay there. He looked right at Sam for a minute, letting Sam get used to him being so close.

"Hey," he said. "C'mere." When Sam took a step closer, Dean pulled him in for a kiss, whispering his lips across Sam's, letting him get used to that, and wasn't surprised when Sam responded, all at once, in a rush, pushing into Dean, all bare skin and heat, licking into his mouth, hands curving around Dean's back. Possessive. Dean could feel Sam's heart beating fast.

When he pulled away, licking his lips, Dean asked, "Okay? You okay?"

"Yeah," said Sam, smiling now.

Something in his chest eased, because of course this was why he'd done it. To get Sam out of that awful place, to bring him back to himself, where he wasn't afraid, where he knew what he was, who he was. Where he could smile at Dean and not worry who was watching. Everything else was just a bonus. A big, huge, sky-filled bonus.

"So get dressed," said Dean, letting go of Sam, reaching to throw a t-shirt in Sam's direction. "We got to eat or I'm going to pass out."

Some of it, Dean realized, could be like it always had been, while other parts of it would be brand new. He smiled, thinking of it as he watched Sam get dressed, like he had a hundred times. And like he would, a thousand times more.

*

Sam got dressed and helped Dean on with a pair of jeans, and helped him with his socks and sneakers while Dean sat on the bed and slid on his shirt. Then Sam took the keys to lock up the room behind them. His brain was very focused on Dean, where he was, where his body was in relation to Sam's, what his footsteps said, how he limped as they walked the short distance to the café. It was a typical southwestern place, all brown and ochre and yellow-red, with coyotes and cactus everywhere you looked. But there would be cold beer, which Sam knew Dean would love.

The place wasn't very busy, and they only had to wait a minute, standing side by side in the slightly dark alcove, shoulders brushing, their hands not touching, until the waitress led them to a table by the dark windows.

"Anything to drink?" she asked, passing them their menus as they sat down.

"I'll have a Corona," said Dean, "and slip two limes in there, that okay?"

She nodded and then turned to Sam. He looked at Dean, feeling the newness sink into him again, him and Dean, ordering beer like it always was, Dean going first because he loved beer, and Sam usually getting what Dean did, because the beer that Dean ordered tasted better. He watched the corners of Dean's eyes crinkle up, the dimple at the corner of his mouth forming as he smiled, watching Sam watching him.

"Me too," Sam said, looking at the waitress, feeling the rather nice warmth settle over him, full of the feel of him and Dean being together. Like this. "But just one lime."

Then she left them to bring back beers and chips and salsa, which they both attacked like they'd not eaten in years. Sam knew he was being far too silent, but it was strange how it could be like this and how they could be brothers at the same time.

When the food came, Dean shoveled in the first bite of his chimicanga and sighed as though the heat was soaking into his skin from the inside. After that came the first swallow of beer straight from the bottle with the lime jammed in the bottom.

Sam took a bite of his own food and watched Dean's throat work as he swallowed the beer. Then Dean put the bottle back on the table and picked up his fork again.

"Oh, man," Dean said. "Mine's great, how's yours?"

"Sure," said Sam. He took a swig of his beer, wanting to rinse his mouth. "You picked the good one. I think mine has green peppers in it."

Then Sam snapped his mouth shut because he'd not meant to complain. Why was he like this, always so fussy with his food? Dean looked like he was on the verge of making them exchange plates so Dean could eat the nasty green peppers, just like he'd eaten all the stewed tomatoes in the hospital, and Sam's throat was about to close up, and fast, just thinking of it, when the waitress, who had overheard them, came over.

"I'm sorry sir, you don't like green peppers?"

Sam opened his mouth to say _no, it was fine_ , so Dean butted in. "No, he really doesn't. Could you just bring him a chimichanga like this one? Extra guac and sour cream, okay?"

"Certainly," said the waitress, and Dean turned his head a moment as though admiring the way the brightly colored flounces of her skirt made her waist tiny enough so that two hands could span it. Then he looked at Sam like he could care less about the waitress.

"Thanks, Dean," said Sam. He felt bad to be so much trouble, but it was nice having Dean look out for him. Like always. Like he would forever; you couldn't change someone like Dean and Sam knew he didn't want to. It would just take a while for him to get used to how they were now.

"I got my special badge for helping picky eaters," said Dean, shrugging as he dug into his food with his fork. Keeping it causal, and smirking. "I figured I could keep doing it, even though I've already _earned_ the badge, so--"

"Shut up," said Sam. But he was laughing.

Dean smiled and kept eating. He was halfway done with his plate when Sam's food came, steaming and piled high with all the fixings, except for no green peppers. Sam dove in and then Dean took a deep slug of his beer.

"So I meant to ask you," Dean said around a mouthful of food, chewing with his mouth open as always in a way that now made Sam feel unexplainably happy. "How did you find me, anyhow?"

Sam had his mouth full too, but he was smiling around it. It was a good story and he wanted to tell it.

"I mean, forty-eight contiguous states," Dean continued, letting Sam chew. "It must have been like a crap shoot. You just got lucky."

The challenge was thrown down and Sam rose to the occasion like Dean had probably known he would.

"Actually," said Sam, "I spotted an article in the _Tulsa World,_ and after that, it was a cakewalk."

"A cakewalk?" Dean made a scoffing sound. "Cakewalk, my _ass_."

Sam swallowed his mouthful. "Sure," he said. "You left a little trail of breadcrumbs from helping people. Like you couldn't stop yourself from doing it. And they couldn't wait to call the nearest newspaper to tell someone all about their rescuer. Their _angel_ from _heaven_." Sam rolled his eyes dramatically, both hands up like a status of the Virgin Mary, food flying from his fork.

Dean snickered into his beer, watching Sam with bright eyes, as though loving this story, and Sam laughed back, opened mouthed, flushed from his beer.

"I started in Overland, Kansas, at a Perkins. I was kind of following you, I mean, I didn't know where you'd gone, but I figured you'd gone west. To where it wasn't raining, you know? And that's when I saw the first article in the paper."

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on Sam as he listened.

"So there was that article, with you using Kris whathisname again, that was easy to recognize. When I drove to Tulsa to track that down, there was another article. And that one talked about zombies, I think. Or was it the poltergeist one? Anyway, I followed that article, which led to another one and then another one."

Dean listened while Sam rambled on, eating more chips to sop up the melted cheese on his plate. Ordering another beer.

"And then," Sam continued, "there was Alice. I think she knew as much about fairy lore as we do."

"Did you interrogate her?" asked Dean.

"For hours," said Sam. "Hours. I think I even got some rhubarb pie out of the deal, did you get any of that?"

" _No_ ," said Dean, exaggerating his irritation, laughing along with Sam. "I rescue her from the black dog, and _you_ get pie? It's not fair."

"Everything is timing, Dean," said Sam smugly, snagging a bit of cheese from Dean's plate with his fork.

Towards the end of the meal, Dean debated getting an apple empanada or a basket of sopapias. Sam was looking at the menu, too, so when the waitress came by, they ordered one of each, to share.

Then Sam asked, "So I meant to ask you, where did you get the paperclips?"

"Paperclips?" asked Dean absently as he watched the waitress come to the table with their deserts. "What paperclips?"

"The ones," said Sam. He paused to divvy up the sopapias, which he had to do or Dean would eat them all and they both knew it. "The ones you used on all the doors in the hospital, and the padlock at the car pound. I know full well and good Greer wasn't handing those out with the meds."

Dean's lips went stiff, suddenly, as though the bite of empanada in his mouth lost its taste. Then Dean swallowed the bite, and kept the smile on his face. "Well," he said, "When I went to the infirmary, the doctor had a clip board, and some paperclips stuck on the paper. So I grabbed 'em, and stuck them on my sock. No one ever knew. Not even you."

"Infirmary," said Sam. "Oh, wait," said Sam. "That was when I--and you--and. Oh."

Too late he realized they shouldn't be talking about this because he could see right where it was going. Down a very dark, unfun road. Fast. Which it did as he realized why Dean had stopped smiling, and remembered why Dean had been in the infirmary, or what had upset Sam enough to make him attack Dean and send him there. None of that memory was good. He took a deep breath and his heart sank. "Shit."

"Uh," said Dean, chewing on his lip.

And at that moment, all the light, buoyed up feeling went out of his heart, because he knew he'd just made Dean feel bad by forcing him to remember. At some point, yes, they would need to have conversations about it and _deal with the issue_ , as Dr. Logan would say. But not yet, not now, in this peaceful, quiet time that they had. Before they got back on the road and re-entered their own lives, saving people, hunting things.

"None of that matters, Sam," Dean said. "It was just that place."

Sam's mouth felt tight, and he flicked his eyes away from Dean's. He stuck out his jaw, trying to keep a lid on.

Dean placed his knife and fork down on the table with a dull click. The shift and sounds of the restaurant seemed far away. Sam kept his eyes on Dean's hands, and let himself be distracted.

"Sam," said Dean, going slow, as though Sam were indeed _that_ Sam, simple and in need of extra care and guidance. "It was what it was, that place. You said it yourself, those kinds of places don't make you sane, they make you _insane_. But we got out. You and me."

Sam couldn't say anything, his chest hurt and he wanted to put his hands over his eyes.

"Sam, look at me, damnit. It's me Dean, we were both there, and I know--"

"But Dean," said Sam, a small, hot explosion bursting in his throat. "I hurt you, hurt you bad--"

"But you were the one they dragged off to Treatment, and how much you wanna bet that I'm going to carry that as my responsibility for a hell of a long time?"

This stopped Sam, and he could see how it would go, each of them counting it up, till there was nothing left but a spiral of accusations and self-recriminations and guilt and a bad taste that would just never go away--

"Besides," said Dean. He dipped his chin to smile a little, though Sam could not for the life of him understand why. He picked up the sopapia on his plate and drizzled honey over it, too much honey, but Dean liked sweet things. Had forever. "You can always make it up to me."

Sam felt his eyebrows come down, confused, knew that he was pouting because he didn't understand.

"Still," said Dean, shoving the pastry in his mouth, half of it, all in one honeyed glob, like he knew would annoy and distract Sam. "We really should wait till my knee is better for next time. But, if you really wanted it, I could--" He broke off to swallow the bite in his mouth.

In spite of the joking tone of his voice, and the glisten of honey on his lips, Dean's eyes were steady, glinting with that deep, green light, like they had in the hospital--the loony bin--steady and green and always on Sam. Watching him. Wanting him. His every waking moment, all of it, all about Sam, and loving him, even though he never said it.

Sam felt his eyes grow hot as he took it in, all that love, wordless and sure and forever. Constant. Just like Dean. He didn't want to break the spell, but he wanted to match Dean's tone, to make it easy for Dean. A little joking, keeping it light, even with the way Dean's eyes pulled him into that steady firm weight of love and wanting and joy.

"Oh," Sam said, arching his eyebrows, swallowing against the thickness in his throat. He reached for what was left of Dean's sopapia, and took it right out of his hand and shoved it all into his mouth. Licked his lips. "So you think there's going to be a next time?"

"There better be," said Dean, joining in, growling, looking grateful that Sam had taken him up on keeping it light, jabbing with his fork to nab the crust of Sam's empanada. "Or I'll lose my mind and they'll send me right back in there, and won't that put Mr. Randy Pointy Fingers on his ass, because you know, don't you, that Dr. Baylor will let me sit in the Special Seat, and I'll be so _special_ \--"

Sam tilted back his head, mouth open, laughing at the thought of it, his heart doing warm flips, thinking of it, how Dean could make him laugh, how Dean was here, smiling at him, smirking really. Laughing too, silently, mouth curved wide, with that dimple forming in the corner. Then he licked his lips, taking the honey on his tongue.

Sam dipped his head, filled with it, his eyes blurring, mouth working as he made himself not cry. Later, he could, in the dark, pressed against Dean, and that would be okay. But Dean needed this now, Dean had been so brave, not running off but holding his ground and when confronted with the truth of loving Sam, had reached out for Sam and said _yes_. In Dean's way, without words, but a yes truer and stronger than any words could be.

Sam swallowed and made himself look up. He wanted to keep his voice low and even, none of that mushy love stuff for Dean, but he was so horribly bad at keeping back what was rushing up in his throat from his heart, a fierce love for Dean, a love strong enough to withstand even Dean's reluctance to let himself be loved.

"I'll be gentle with you," he said.

Dean looked back at him, the lights in his eyes just as steady as ever, gleaming, guiding Sam to him. "I know," he said. His voice was a little husky, and he seemed to frown as if judging himself for this, so Sam had to fix it.

"At least till your knee is better. Then, well," Sam shook his head, pretending to be less than concerned for Dean's welfare. "You just better be ready."

"I will be, Sam-I-Am," said Dean. He tilted his head back, looking back at Sam, cocky and sure, that smirk firmly in place. "I will be."

~The End~

**Author's Note:**

> The existence of this story is due to a number of things.
> 
> First, to the Big Bang Challenge, which made me want to write something long and complicated, to raise my own bar, and to work really, really hard at something for no other reason than because it was there.
> 
> Second, because I wanted to write a story that told how Sam and Dean really fell in love. If you go to my LJ you’ll see I’ve asked around, and really the only non-changing answer is that everyone has their own theory and all theories are equally valid. I wouldn’t say that this story represents my only theory, but it was the one I choose to go with.
> 
> Third, because I have an unhealthy obsession with mental institutions.
> 
> Fourth, because of a story I read that Took Over My Brain. It’s called Missing Persons and it's by Dira Sudis. It’s set in the Numb3rs fandom, and tells the story of Charlie getting kidnapped, and of Don finding him to rescue him. Only Charlie has amnesia and then sex happens, wonderful angsty and realistic sex that develops from a set of circumstances in such a steady and sustained way, that when it happens, it’s utterly absorbing and real and true. MP is one of those stories I fell in love with and wanted to marry. You know the feeling, you read it, you can’t stop thinking about it, it comes up in all those conversations in your head that you can’t possibly have with people at work, it absorbs your waking hours, and the only time you don’t think about it is when you’re looking for another story just like it. Damn that Dira. She’s ruined me forever.
> 
> ***
> 
> Hey there, thanks for reading my fan fiction! Because I love writing so much, I've turned my attention to writing m/m historical romances. My goal is to make a living by my writing, so if you'd like to give my books a try, you can [ click the link to visit my website](http://www.christinaepilz.com/) and find out more.


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